Zion
by H.K.Faulkner
Summary: "Try walking alongside a tribal child, a refugee, holding her hand after her parents are killed. A grenade comes rolling in and you only survive because someone else absorbed the shrapnel. It leaves you sprawled on the ground, head pounding, with little girl's hand in your hand because that's all that's left of her." Honest Hearts, if from a different perceptive. [DanielxF!Courier]
1. Same Thing, Different Day

{| **I** |}

* * *

**To those it may concern: **  
This little thing here is a re-write, sorry for no clarifying it earlier, Funky P. For more information as to why, see my bio, otherwise - enjoy!

* * *

Zion  
: **I** :

_Same Thing, Different Day._

One would think that it was entirely unpredictable, but it's actually nothing of the sort.

It's all the same when he awakes, completely identical to countless other times he's gone through it in the past few years. There was a saying for it, he thinks; 'Same thing, Different Day' or something along similar archaic clichéd lines. At any rate, that obscure little saying was nothing short of the truth.

Especially when it came to this.

Without so much as missing a beat, his eyes snap open at the moment of impact, but of course, right here, right now, there is nothing there. He's alone. There's no danger, and he prays that there never will be. Not again.

This doesn't stop him from jolting himself violently into consciousness, however. Sitting bolt upright as his hand slips under his head for the cold, disturbingly familiar touch of his .45 automatic pistol, he expects himself to be there; in the burning aftermath of a recent explosion, with that cursed heavy, loud ringing in his ears, feeling the mass of someone's dead weight across his stomach, facing off fifteen or so NCR prospectors, who move along the desert track before him. The world tilts nauseatingly when his arm flies upwards, his heart thundering, expression set.

But the New Canaanite Missionary, Daniel Ryker, does not pull the trigger. While five years of uncontrollable nightmares can startle him into unwarranted self-defence, a decade or so training can stop him firing off a whole magazine just as easily. He's managed to drop his handgun against his lap before he does something drastic, gaze fixed forwards and chest surging as he tries to catch his breath.

Once he'd calmed down enough to make sense of his surroundings, Daniel frowns when he realises that he'd fallen asleep where he had collapsed some hours earlier; sprawled inelegantly on top of his sleeping bag, still fully clothed and - Daniel then notes as he tugs dispassionately at the straps of his shoulder holster - armed.

At least he hadn't slept with the SMG. That could have been problematic.

Yawning, he can feel the angry crease embedded into the skin just above his temple, likely from where his head had rested awkwardly against the cave floor. Like some weird, Frankenstein welt. Once he's free of his holster, the missionary blinks again, awareness still splintered with jumbled half memories and heightened senses. A glance at the entrance of the cave proves that it's very early in the morning - enough for it to still be dark.

He brings his arm up, squinting at the luminescent hands on his wristwatch. Five fifteen.

_Fantastic_.

So he struggles out of his over-shirt and scrambles upwards, sluggish and unbalanced as he stands into his shoes and fumbles around to tie his laces. As an afterthought, he recollects the .45 and steps outside.

Out here, everything begins to slow down and the cool breeze immediately chills the nervous perspiration that had gathered at his hairline and collarbones. It's hard to relax straight away, especially after that nightmare in particular, so he's not surprised when he finds himself stood above the edge that overlooks the river. The big one that flows straight through the Sorrow's Camp. A familiar spot where he likes to spend his infrequent minutes of spare time. A few of the Sorrows take one good look at him, realise where is going and then continue on.

This isn't unusual; he's often left alone when he's here - the Sorrows seem to understand a man's need for solitude, something he's immensely grateful for. If anyone was to ask him what he thought about, he wouldn't be able to rightly explain. It was one of the few things that changed. Different topics, different comprehensions - different moods. Regardless, it's very important, because it's a point in his schedule that's just between him and the Lord. Daniel doesn't mind the fact that he's sharing his life with the Sorrows, far from it, in fact, if the situation had played itself out any differently - if his home was still standing, if the White Legs never happened, if Zion wasn't at risk, then he wouldn't think he'd trade it for anything.

As much as he enjoyed their company, however, he needed time alone with nothing but his thoughts and faith. It was time that wasn't spent running around maniacally trying to prevent his worst nightmares from recurring, or, brooding in a semi-depressed haze, but just... Pondering. It was rare in New Canaan, to have solitary times of reflection and even rarer out in the Wasteland proper. After all, nothing in this world is ever peaceful for long. If at all.

This time, however, he's too worked up to stand around thinking. In fact, he has to spend his surplus energy stomping around the ledge so he doesn't end up strangling the life out of someone. It's not something he's particularly proud of.

When he's reached the end of the ledge and turned around for the fifth time in a row, Daniel grits his teeth harshly with levels of unaccounted fury, eyebrows scrunched together as he draws to a halt, folding his arms. It doesn't always happen like this - and that's one of few differences. Mostly he wakes up disorientated. Wakes up to somehow assume that it was just a dream, only to be dragged back to the harsh reality. Times like this, were he comes around after being panicked unexpectedly and inexplicably furious, happened to be the rarest. He doesn't understand the brain chemistry behind the shift of moods, but it's annoying. Daniel, if nothing else, is known for keeping a level head. He's not the kind of person to go around throttling people for no good reason. If it all.

He shakes his head. This is pointless. Stupid. Stupid, _stupid_.

It's a brisk morning, the sun is pale in colour as it creeps slowly over the walls of the canyon, overshadowed by transparent clouds. He tips his head back, looking up to see if - or, more likely, when - it'll start raining. He can't tell. Though it is beautiful, the wind, while cold, is gentle, barely even noticeable against the crook of his neck. It would be enjoyable if he wasn't so wound up. Again, Daniel checks his watch. It's far earlier than what most people consider normal, but even if he had wanted to go back to sleep, he couldn't have. The likelihood is he'd only wake up half an hour later, this time only screaming instead of threatening to fire his gun, so he decides to just stay awake. The phantom stench of blood lingers in his nose and makes the deepest part of him shiver.

They feel real. The nightmares. Very real. Seven years ago, it had been real. Two months ago, it had been real. Of course, at the time, it never hit him. Either ambling through the ruins of Salt Lake City confused with a busted leg or running through the burning streets of New Canaan with an unfamiliar rifle in his blood soaked hands, it was like he was thundering though some kind of fevered dream.

The Nightmares about... her... though, they are far worse. They aren't like the nightmares he had about New Canaan; a mixture of events real and imagined, what he did, what he should have done, what could have happened and what didn't, even if they did end the same. He dies, when he has nightmares about New Canaan.

It's not his death that wakes him up, though. It's not his death that scares him - it's the price _they'd_ pay for it. The Sorrows. They would be at risk, as would all the other tribes. All 'cause he wasn't there.

The _other_ nightmares, however, are real. Incredibly real. More like flashbacks, every detail, every fleeting image. It's identical, routine and he wakes up every time still thinking he's there. That he's still fighting. Hence the gun, and all.

Daniel shakes his head, running his free hand through his hair as he stares at the river some more. That's enough for one day, he thinks. The wind pushes against his features, causing him to suddenly become aware that he's only stood in a grimy t-shirt and batted pair of trousers. It makes him grunt. His family would have been unamused to see him like this, but nobody will bother him about his rumpled appearance at five in the morning.

At least, he hopes they won't. He's hardly the scruffiest man in the wasteland. God forbid. He can't deal with people this early.

Daniel groans into his hands. Is this what he's been reduced to? By all what is sacred, he sounds _just_ like Mordecai.

The stab of white hot guilt returns with a gasping cough. Pretty unexpectedly, he thinks, considering how long it's been since...

"Daniel!"

The man himself jerks, startled, though admittedly, somewhat thankful for the distraction. Trudging over towards the slope that led downwards into the river and pointedly ignoring the way his hand tightens around his firearm, Daniel frowns - he only vaguely recognises the voice.

While very much unique between themselves, the Sorrows - like every tribe, have a very particular accent or at least some distinct of speech that comes with speaking a language for as long as they have. He should know. His mother's 'Polyglot to end all polyglots' label replayed in his head and he very nearly smiled at the memory. It can't be Waking Cloud because, hell, he recognised her voice when he heard it and he also knows for a definite fact that she's gone out for the day to collect herbs. It can't be Joshua; the man doesn't like to raise his voice, for one, and he and Daniel have an unspoken rule that neither of them pay social calls. So he'd be _very_ surprised to see him.

But seeing one of the Dead Horses happens to be even more surprising.

One of the first things he notices, then recongises, is the heavily decorated baseball cap. From his vantage point, the missionary can make out the shapes of the adornments. Feathers, beads and other such oddities. He doesn't know many of the Dead Horses. He hasn't had a lot of time to get to know them - he's only around them when he's mending injuries, and if they aren't unconscious when he's doing it, the language barrier means they can't communicate all that well. So he grimaces as he thinks back, tucking his handgun into his waistband in order to assist the scout in climbing up the bank.

Aha. Scout... scout... Dead Horse scouts follow cha- Chalk. Follows-Chalk. The memory clicks as he offers a hand out, pulling the panting tribal up the last leg of the slope and wordlessly stepping back. Raising his brow in silent question, Daniel waits for Follows-Chalk to catch his breath.

He doesn't get to ask. The scout gets there first, with a sense of urgency that Daniel doesn't find very reassuring. The boy is panicked - nigh on frenzied even. Nothing good can come out of that.

"I need a healer." the boy declares with a deep throated pant and Daniel gives the tribal a once over. The frown he was wearing doesn't let up.

"Huh." the missionary scratches the side of his jaw. He needs to shave. Again. "You look fine to me. Physically, anyway."

The tribal, somehow, manages to strain a smile. "Not for me, for her."

"Her?"

"An outsider." Follows-Chalk explains. "She came from the northern passage, escaped White Legs. I found her a ways from here."

Whatever medical professional that still remains in Daniel immediately prompted him to turn around and go back into the cave. Making a concerned noise, Follows-Chalk follows, hot on his heels.

White Legs never often leave survivors; as a New Canaanite, Daniel knows more than anyone. Either she's very lucky, or they're still on her tail and both of those scenarios don't advertise much time to spare. "What condition was she in? Was she speaking?" he asks as he tugs on a relatively clean over-shirt, not bothering to button it up but instead just fixing his holster over it. He'll bring the SMG this time, least they get caught out. White Legs and wildlife aside, an outsider isn't likely to know the land - neither are they to be trusted. Stereotypical, perhaps, but the last time Daniel was faced with strangers from the Mojave, they butchered fifty three people.

Better to be safe than sorry. He thinks as he loads the SMG. He's not going to lose the Sorrows. Not another tribe.

Regardless, she'll need help. Even if she is some form of mercenary. He can't see Joshua getting here any quicker than he could, advanced scouts or no, that and the man would just end up taking her here anyway.

"No. I tried to make her get up, but she could not stand. I moved her. Someplace safe."

It's better than nothing. "How bad did she look?"

Follows-Chalk makes to open his mouth, but then he pauses as Daniel hefts one of those old, Pre-War paramedic bags over his shoulder and turns to look at him. It takes the scout a while to make the correct assumption. "Her leg was bleeding, badly and she... erm... she was pale."

"Lots of blood?"

The scout nods.

"Big wound?"

Again, he nods. Paleness and major blood loss, possible symptoms of hypovolaemic shock. The wound presents opportunity for numerous general infections and considering the usual wounds he's been dealing with here, it'll be deep incision. If the wound is as bad as Follows-Chalk says it is - which, considering how hard it is for him to assess damage at the best of times, didn't seem likely - then she will be running out of time quickly. Hopefully no major arteries would have been severed. That, and the White Legs often lean heavily on potions too. If that's the case, then his job is about to get much harder. He pauses at that, reaching across the table to grab a few bottles of antivenom. He'd have to ask one of the Sorrows about replacements. He's running out.

Add that to the fact that the Northen Passage is a good few hours away, that she's likely been moving around for a long time if she's got this far into the valley and it looks grim. A few minutes is a long time to be bleeding, or unconscious, never mind hours.

It's hardly an optimistic sting of thoughts and Daniel nods towards Follows-Chalk.

"We need to hurry - take me to her."

* * *

{| **I** |}

* * *

He does, and they end up arriving at the mouth of a cave a good hour and a quarter later. It's one of the few natural systems Daniel actually recognises; a good six years ago, he had scouted a few of them out in order to relive frequent bouts of boredom. Cueva Guarache is one of the many survivalist' dwellings in the canyon, and the closest one to the Narrows.

Like he expected, the white handprints around the entrance mark it as a taboo area, but interestingly enough, Follows-Chalk doesn't seem to hold such superstitions and boldly makes his way inside.

"- Say angry ghosts live inside. Not that I believe in angry ghosts. They're just spooky old places, right?"

Daniel nods. "Uh huh, nothing but old traps." he knows this for a genuine fact, he's cleared away - or rather, nearly _stood_ on, enough of them as it was. Though judging by the relativity fresh White Legs' corpses shoved over to one side, he hasn't got them all.

He was clever, the Survivalist, Daniel will give him that.

The Survivalist. The Father in the Caves - Randell Clark. Daniel was very aware of just who the man was; a defining figure of the Sorrows' tribe. The number of notes left on separate computer terminals, and then, the folded paper in his duffle bag had been enough evidence. At first, it was rather alarming that this one individual, a former soldier inhabiting the National Park just after the Great War, managed to shape an entire belief, but then, he didn't find himself all that surprised. Admittedly, a lot of the Sorrows' history is unknown, lost over the course of many generations, but it's known that at some point they began calling themselves the Sorrows, and attempted to search the caves in the region for traces of 'the Father'. After their scouts disappeared, it seemed clear to them that individuals seeking out the Father would be taken from them, and so they began marking pre-war buildings or tech with a white hand mark, declaring them taboo.

The terminals shed some light into that. It's interesting as much as it is tragic.

They also brought forward an issue Daniel had been profoundly worrying over for the past five years. These terminals, the words of Clark, would essentially pick apart their beliefs and while that would probably make converting them to Mormonism far easier, Daniel was in no hurry to use them. He'd made it clear, first to Matthews - the man responsible for training him as a Missionary all those years ago, and then, to Joshua far more recently, that it was best to keep it under the metaphorical hat. Who is he to go around poking holes in their religion? That wasn't fair, nor was it morally correct. It was something the sodding _Legion_ would do. If he did that, bluntly presenting the evidence and proving them wrong, he'd risk wrecking several generations of general good naturedness and peace - something that is, incredibly rare in the Wasteland.

He hadn't the need, anyway. He'd been having some success as of late in regards to his missionary work, regardless of the truth behind Randell Clark. A fair number of the Sorrows were up for learning more - he'd been communicating, surprisingly, well with Waking Cloud and White Bird was no longer trying to throttle him at every passing moment. He doesn't need to go parading the truth around, especially where it wasn't wanted.

As for Clark, he and Joshua had found him eventually. Located his remains after a two day trek. In silent agreement, they ended up giving him a proper burial. It was the least they could do, all things considered.

Well. Daniel could do more, he supposes. He could keep them safe.

He does wonder though, what would happen if they ever did find out. If one of the Sorrows came across the evidence. Guess he'll just have to wait and see, he supposes. He'd support their decision no matter what it was. That, he decided years ago.

The cave entrance leads down into a steeply descending corridor. At the bottom of the slope, the path seemed to split, one fork curving left and the other going straight ahead and then, to the right. Although his memory is hazy, he does recall the dense, once heavily-trapped wall of bush - a defence mechanism, one that at the time, he had to skirt around and only managed to completely disarm with Joshua's help. The bear traps had been moved, but parts of the tripwire still remained. Daniel also assumes that Joshua had put the rigged shotguns to good use, because they aren't here now either. Further on, past the bush was the doorway that led directly into what was once Randall Clark's chambers.

It's silent when they enter - it's not a good sign. Follows-Chalk hurries cover towards the southern end of the chamber, the raised platform it seems, still stands. At the west end is a workbench and just beside it is the ramp that goes into the designated sleeping area. It seems the scout had placed her down here, because Daniel can practically smell the blood as soon as he gets within a few meters of her.

It doesn't take him much longer to actually _see_ it.

Edging closer, Daniel drops to his knees and lowers the paramedic's bag out of the way, but still close enough for him to reach it quickly. Follows-Chalk stops near the entrance, filtering nervously and wringing his hands. Although he'd rather the boy stay out this, he can't see in this light - so Daniel hands the scout one of those Pre-War heavy duty flashlights. It's a cumbersome thing to have to carry around, and he can't say he's glad to be rid of it for the moment. The bright light rips through the semi-darkness, illuminating the space and then, the injured form below him. When he can see properly, he presses his lips into a thin line and draws out a harsh breath.

She's not in a good condition. At all.

It was her left leg that was damaged and the blood had long since seeped through her trousers at his point, pooling on the mattress under her. Dark waves of hair, an exposed shell of an ear, shoulder blades rising in sharp arcs through her shirt. And dying, of course. That was his first impression of her. The second comes in the form of rapid medical deductions, observations coming first. The injured leg is askew, but that's because of how Follows-Chalk had rested her, rather than any potential injury. When he goes to inspect, he realises that it's not a bullet wound, but rather a machete's doing - the skin and muscle has peeled away so he can see white streaks of bone. That's bad. Very bad. Beyond deep tissue. So he resolves to tend to that first and foremost.

Before everything, he has to cut away the trouser leg and he tosses the fabric over his shoulder without as much a care, examining the wound properly. Next, he does the logical thing and pulls on a pair of elastic gloves, least he winds up transferring anything harmful. Grabbing a towel, he then applies as much pressure onto the wound as he can. A glance at her expression shows that she might not be as unconscious as he first thought, because she frowns in pain. Angular features suddenly creasing up with the sudden jolt.

He indicates for Follows-Chalk to help, and he leaves the scout to apply pressure as he roots around his bag, looking for a stimpack. It'll help with the clotting, while she's not bleeding as profoundly as what he'd expect - it's a large wound and he can't be too certain. She's just lucky she hadn't actually served an artery. Very lucky. So he jabs it further up her thigh and she winces again, this time managing to let out a half grunt, half yelp of sorts. Stimpacks are designed to hurt on purpose - it's a universal indicator as to how healthy someone is. If you can't feel pain, chances are you're either high, or something is wrong. The fact that she reacted makes Daniel somewhat less concerned then he was before. She's reacting to stimuli.

Once the bleeding has stopped completely, he starts giving the wound a small, quick clean with napkin and a bottle of hydrogen peroxide. He'll have to clean it properly when he gets back to the Sorrows' camp, but this will do for now. Kills bacteria before it can create any infections. Simply a precaution as he starts wrapping a series of bandages over it. For the first few layers, the blood seeps through, but on about the fifth, it stops and Daniel watches for a few minutes, somewhat unconvinced. Nothing seems to happen after that, so he works on securing the bandage. The major threat of blood loss and possible infection quashed, he checks over the rest of her.

A few scrapes and cuts, nothing too serious - he'll have to stitch up a few cuts on her arms and face. She'll have a lot of bruises, that's for certain. She is in hypovolaemic shock and that's his next concern. She's not far enough that he needs to pursue drastic measures, but she'll be in need of medication. Dopamine if he has any. Epinephrine- no, he grimaces. He's out of that. Norepinephrine...? He wishes. He hasn't seen any of that in a good four years. Regardless, Daniel can't exactly deal with it here and he turns towards Follows-Chalk, expression firm. "Put the flashlight in the bag - I'll need you to carry it for me."

The boy adds everything up pretty quickly. "You'll be carrying her?"

Daniel gives him a grim smile. "Judging by how she looks, she doesn't weigh over a hundred pounds, let alone three. I can manage."

The look Follows-Chalk gives him tells Daniel what he's thinking. That it won't do any of them any good if they walk into an ambush, or are attacked and heck, Daniel has to agree - but he doesn't have much of a choice. The scout just clenches his jaw as Daniel snakes one arm down through her arms and around her chest, wrapping the other securely around her knees before flipping her over and jerking her clinically up into his arms in one quick, practiced motion. He pointedly doesn't think about the way she's being held up against his chest, like some sick parody of a bridal carry. Instead, he just starts moving. Trying to keep his movements steady as he weaves through the cave system.

When they get outside, the sun's intense heat makes him grimace. They can't stay out here for much longer, half turning to make sure Follows-Chalk was behind him, he nods, before making his way back through the river.

She groans, then, properly and her eyes slowly open. Even unfocused and bleary in shock, they're a flat and foreboding grey and she stares at him confused for a few moments, the smallest crease evident on her forehead. Daniel just fixes his gaze back to the canyon walls, working purposelessly on.

"You hang in there now." he tells her.

Same thing, Different day.

_Right_.


	2. Less-than-Cordial Welcome

{| **II **|}

Zion

: **II** :

_Less-than-cordial welcome_

The morning that followed was worse than the attack itself. At least, in his opinion, that is how it felt.

The White Legs, a group of barbarous murderers that attacked their home, continue to pile up bodies before moving them away. Now, having either destroyed the town with gasoline and fire in its entirety, or having since quenched their needs for supplies – and, hopefully, bloodlust – they are no longer raiding. Regardless of the reason, three quarters of their original fighting force has gone. Dispersed back into the Wasteland.

It's this scene they look upon, hidden up high amongst the rugged mountainside that surrounds half of what used to be New Canaan. Two brothers, on their fronts, pressed up against the rock face in an attempt to stay unseen. Their faces, while different, share the same expressions. A turbulent portrait of impotent rage, terrible fear, overwhelming grief, heart aching sorrow and a secret sense of relief none of them really understand.

The first is the eldest of the two, a big fellow, dark haired and short of stature. Anthony Ryker lets out a gasp between clenched teeth and rips his gaze away, momentarily choking on his own words.

The younger brother, who is leaner and taller, but still as dark haired, Peter Ryker, turns towards his older counterpart. His gaze locks onto his brother's face hard, searching for something akin to reassurance. Something that proves that this is just some horrible nightmare - the kind that wakes their eldest brother up frequently most nights. That kind. The bad kind. Something that tells him that it's just not true - that their family and friends, fellow brothers and sisters, that they are _fine_. That the bodies of their family aren't lying in piles further down in the town centre

A few seconds of staring and the look Anthony gives him proves as much.

Their worst nightmares _have_ come true.

Peter is not a weak man, but the concept of everything that has just transpired is enough to make his lower jaw tremble. "Tony," he gasps, trying hardest to hold back his sobs. _Crying won't solve anything_, his father used to say. _Crying won't bring them back_. "What do we do?" the younger brother then demands. He has yet to unclench his hands.

Anthony's expression hardens, then breaks, but he manages to get control over it again. He exhales hard through his nose, gritting through his clenched jaw. Right here, right now. He's in charge. For all the good it'll do. "We stay here."

"But-"

"Stay here!" he hisses, sliding across the weathered rock on his stomach in order to get closer to his little brother. "What good is it going to do? To go running down there and get slaughtered, to just end up with the rest of them?" his voice breaks at the last part and he looks away again. Peter won't look at him, blue eyes brimming with stubbornly unreleased tears. Anthony makes a noise akin to pain, shifting closer again so their shoulders are touching. He clasps a hand around the younger man's shoulder. It's not much, but it's enough. "Someone must have got out." he says, quietly, hushed. "They'll be hiding out just like we are."

"The... the corpses." Peter mutters. "What are they doing with them?"

Anthony's expression falters. He knows.

He's not the only New Canaanite to have come across White Leg's before. He shakes his head. "Peter..."

"They're dead, what could-"

"_Peter_... be quiet."

But the younger brother just shakes his head. "Tony, everyone is... oh God." They've lost many - and that was just in the firefight that erupted near the gateway to the town. Seven hundred people live in New Canaan. He wonders how many do now. "They're... they're gone."

"Not everyone." Anthony insists, looking his little brother in the face. His expression is firm, but his eyes betray a sense of fear. He knows what this is. With Peter. It's the beginnings of shell-shock. "Samuel, Adam and Johanna will be fine. They'll be ok. Daniel – he'll be fine, he was on tenth metre watch when it happened. You could get away from that."

Peter splutters in disbelief, face crumpling up. "How do you know that?"

"If they're the people we know they are, then they'll be alright. They're used to trouble - _We're_, used to trouble." he nods his head then. Perhaps, just perhaps, there is hope. They can only hope now and of course, place trust in the Lord. Anthony inwardly detests it. He wants to be _certain_, not just hopeful.

They continue to watch in silence, slowly, morning turns to afternoon and it's only when the sun is starting to fall towards the horizon that they finally deem it safe enough. Neither man could nap, nor could they move much from their positions. When Anthony stands, his limbs ache, moving across the ledge to examine the town before him anew. It's obvious that the White Legs are still there, but with far less numbers than before. Enough to make it home.

Or, what's left of it.

Anthony grimaces and turns to Peter, eyes landing on the freshly polished .45 automatic pistol pressed up against the younger man's gut. Peter had just finished his missionary training, he was supposed to be leaving in a few weeks' time. Daniel and Mordicai had been picking out tribes, Anthony knows. He hadn't even had the chance to fire it outside the walls.

"You remember how to work that?" he asks and Peter gives him a firm, curt nod. A New Canaanite is raised around firearms as much, if not more, than they are faith, but firing a gun at a bottle is far different from doing so at a tribal. A living human being. Savages, but human none the less. "Safety off, know the target." again, there is another nod and Anthony sighs. He closes his eyes for a moment. Then he looks at him, expression blank. "Let's go then."

* * *

{| **II** |}

* * *

Jerking awake suddenly with a scowl, Daniel rips his head up and blinks the bright light away, automatically lurching up in his chair. It wasn't, in any way, a good position to sleep in. His neck aches painfully and his arms and lower back twinge unpleasantly.

He doesn't know what had startled him and at this point, he really doesn't care. He hasn't gone jumping for his handgun, so it can't be that bad of a situation. He takes the time to breathe. Then he looks up.

Frowning across the expanse of the room, Daniel tries to make sense of his surroundings. He stops dead, however, when he sees Waking Cloud. She's standing on the other side of the woman, holding what looks vaguely like a syringe to his confused mind. Then he realises that she's holding it wrong and he can't help but relax. It's poised to inject the injured woman, but at an angle that makes him wince just thinking about it. With the afternoon sun, the midwife looks far more angelic than usual. Syringe and all.

She's looking pretty alarmed, however, like she's not sure why…

Oh. He's still scowling. That explains it. Grunting, he wipes the expression off his face.

"Did I wake you?" she whispers, looking more than a little concerned. Daniel's damn Ryker streak riles a bit with her unease, but it's nothing more than a sense of good-natured intention, so he shakes his head. More to himself than her.

He doesn't mean to come across as ungrateful, it's just how things worked in his family. Back in New Canaan, close to all forms of charity rankled, even if it did ever come out of some form of undeserved respect. They didn't mind giving; if anything, they gave too much. It was receiving they couldn't cope with. It was an odd family custom that used to send Mordecai up the bend half the time. Plain stubbornness, he had said, and now, as a thirty-year-old man, Daniel knows it was this stupid outlook on life that got them into a lot of these predicaments in the first place.

If he had been a little less suspicious of other people's good will, perhaps he could have solved more than a few issues before they could have even started.

"It's fine…" he trails off, eyeing the syringe, then the woman. She's not doing so well now and then, he realises that it was her that had startled him. Her sleep is fitful; shivering and sweating, with a grimace that proves more than just a little discomfort.

"C'mere," he grunts then, sliding off the chair and walking over. Waking Cloud knows better than to argue - not that she ever would, honestly - she's learnt a lot, but he's always the first one to do something when it comes round to it. At the end of the day, he's the one who's spent eight or so years studying medicine.

Still, he handles it way better than Matthews ever did. Perhaps it was just because he was trained as a Missionary, or because of Matthew's arrogance, but Daniel is a far better teacher. He can get his point across, showing her just how to position the syringe so it's not being held like a knife.

God forbid.

"You need to tilt your hand ever so slightly – and don't grip it; thumb on the plunger, index and middle finger on the base. Don't use your whole hand. Otherwise, you risk the chance of hurting them."

There is a trick to missionary work. Daniel knows. It's a surprise how much actual work goes into the logistics of what he does.

He's used to teaching tribals the specifics. How to make better fires, how to do this, how to do that. It's the simple stuff that doesn't take a lot of afterthought. Leading by example. Teaching a select few people medicine however is another kettle of fish. As a spiritual leader there are a million different things to organise when it comes to the tribe as a whole. Less things now, admittedly, as the Sorrows have come a long way in the past six years, but teaching another person how to heal others is even more time consuming than the latter, for completely different reasons.

Now, Daniel knows how Matthews felt. He can't just show Waking Cloud what to do and expect her to just get on with it. He cannot, and should not, under any circumstances, allow her to treat anyone without him looking over her shoulder, or at least, without his consent. She's a very intelligent woman, a talented midwife, but it takes more than just skill to heal another person. She doesn't know many of the pre-war medicines he uses, that there is a major difference between Amoxicillin and Ampicillin, that it's not the needle that helps – or, as much as it is the case in the Wasteland _harms_ – people, but the stuff inside it.

She'll get it one day, of course, but until then, Daniel isn't going anywhere. They're stuck with him.

"How long was I asleep?" he asks after he's finished taping back the bandages and rolling the sleeve down.

She stares at him for a few moments, a soft furrow between her eyebrows. "Not for long. Three revolutions."

Daniel nods. Three hours. That's… a long time. For him at least. Waking Cloud doesn't know, at least, he doesn't think she knows. She likely only assumes what everyone else does; that Daniel Ryker does not often sleep. The reasons why he hasn't advertised. Nor is he going too. He doesn't need to burden this tribe with his own past failings, that isn't fair.

Oh look, his Ryker streak is back again.

"What will Joshua Graham do with this woman?" she asks then, suddenly and Daniel just shakes his head, breaking apart the syringe and throwing into a tray that smelled strongly of generic disinfectant, alcohol and Abraxo cleaner.

Another reason he wants to get them out of Zion. "Nothing." He assures. "It would be wrong to act without proper judgement… and it's not up to Joshua." Unintentionally, the latter part of his sentence turns out to be far more suggestive than he was expecting. Thankfully she doesn't seem to notice.

It's not that he's blaming him – people came in from the Mojave all the time and more often than not, they turn out to be threats, threats Daniel or Joshua has to deal with. No. Recently his attitude towards the former Legate had changed. Not much, but it's still a change none the less – and a pretty noticeable one at that. It's not that he's scared, or even angry, but something in his manner has shifted.

Daniel knows Joshua on a personal level, enough to be familiar on grounds that a lot of people just ignore, so any change in behaviour between them is evident. He's not the only one who's noticed; Anthony and Peter have suddenly become weary whenever the two of them are in the same vicinity.

He can't really explain it. A few years ago, Daniel would have rather disembowelled himself than question Joshua's authority, but now, he doesn't know. What was once outspoken disagreement has turned into a quiet but unmistakably heavy power struggle. So much so, that he's quite sure something is going to _snap_ one day. It wasn't like with Anthony, with little games of one-upmanship, or the clipped, frustrated conversations he had with Mordecai in regards to missionary regimes and guardposts. Daniel is at an impasse with a living legend - but he's not stepping back, even if he is way out of his depth.

He's not going to take anyone just walking over him, big scary Malpais Legate or no. Daniel is far too stubborn for that. It's this brand of stubbornness mixed with Joshua's headstrong nature that is the ready made recipe for disagreements and, as they have since realised, outright arguments. Some of them have actually been quite vicious - which does scare Daniel, because hell, he might be stronger, far younger, but he wouldn't last a minute in a proper fight with Joshua. He's capable, he guesses, to do a fair amount of damage before going down, but he doesn't want to. Be capable, that is. Daniel doesn't _want_ to hurt anybody, not again. Especially not Joshua. He might not agree with the former Legate's motives, but he still loves the man with the same begrudging fondness of a brother regardless and he's pretty sure that a good amount of that is returned.

Daniel does know what Joshua wants. He wants redemption. He wants to take vengeance for New Canaan. It's something the missionary understands - some part of him wants it too.

But what he can't stress enough is that, heck, it's happened before and that's what worries him. People died in New Canaan because they waged war. It was easier to pull a trigger then find an alternative way around, but in no way better. Mordecai lost fifty people trying to avenge New Jerusalem back in his day.

It's a vicious circle, one he doesn't want to drag the Sorrows into. He's dragged enough tribes into problems they can't handle as it is.

The fact that the Sorrows are simply innocent makes it even harder to swallow. Well, they can fight, he supposes - kill a Yao Gaui with nothing but a three man hunting team, but what do they know about making _war_? Only that Randall Clark said to avoid it whenever they could.

No. He'll move them away, then once they are out of reach, Joshua can do how he pleases with the White Legs. There's more at stake here than a clump of land. When the White Legs are gone, what happens when the Legion decides to make a move, or the NCR? More wars? He hates to admit it, but Zion is no longer the safe haven it used to be.

"Good." Waking Cloud seems reassured. "She is still very weak."

"She'll be like this for a while." Daniel gives her a sidelong glance and then he sighs. Moving back over towards his camping chair and falling against it heavily, running a hand through his hair as he does so. He gives the woman a once over from his position.

Cleaned up, she looks much better than before. The colour has returned to her face and now that he's given her a sedative, she's relaxed, not tensed up from the pain. She'll still need to be on an IV, but the hypovolemic shock wasn't as serious as it once was. She's no longer on death's door. A few bruised ribs, cuts and scrapes – the obvious injury to her leg and mild heat exhaustion was all he found. Typical wounds. Certainly nothing he hasn't seen before. Daniel doesn't know what she's been through exactly, or how many miles she had wandered before Follows-Chalk had managed to track her down, but White Legs or no, she's going to make it.

A muffled gunshot rings out over the distance, snatching his attention and he glances towards the mouth of the cave. He recalls the flash of discomfort in Follow-Chalk's eyes when he told the boy to get back to Joshua. It's not Daniel's place to say how Joshua runs the Dead Horses, but that level of unease in the boy's eyes wasn't exactly a welcome sight in either instance, mainly because he actually likes the scout, in all truthfulness. He's very well spoken for a tribal, green enough to follow your lead, but experienced so that you don't have to keep a constant watch. He reminded Daniel a lot of Samuel, actually. That sort of compassionate eagerness and general light hearted demeanour was spot on.

Daniel grimaces and forces back a bite of dissent. Now is not the time to be thinking of such things.

Walking Cloud excuses herself to see to dinner and Daniel grunts his assent, gaze still locked on the woman, mulling over recent events and in particular, his own responses to it all. If she wasn't an outsider, he'd be considerably more enthusiastic. Why, he doesn't quite know. He could have a guess; he has never liked strangers and rarely finds an excuse to go out meeting non-tribals. Even in New Canaan he was quiet and somewhat elusive. At least, he had been. Especially after the Tar Walkers.

Daniel is not going to lie - he doesn't trust her one bit. At all.

Oh, he'll help her. He'd help her because it's right, because somebody has to, because it's how he was raised and because, hell, he never took up medicine for the added benefits, but still, it's just _not_ a good time to catch them in the slightest. He takes comfort in knowing that it won't be a situation that lasts long. She'll get better and be on with her way, hopefully. The sooner he can get back to evacuating the Sorrows the sooner he can... well... the sooner the better, in any sense. It doesn't matter what he does afterwards.

* * *

{| **II** |}

* * *

The town they walk into is not the town they remember.

A pair of legs lie motionless across the street, old and pre-war, the asphalt is cracked. It had rained during the night. Put most of the fires out. Not that it will do much good, though - New Canaan is gone. That thought in particular just hurts and Anthony manages to stifle the gasp. Peter isn't doing much better. They stare in mute horror as they move across, down dirt pathways that used to be familiar, the streets of their youth, their home. A few flies buzz around dead livestock and a woman's body lies nearby. They lived close to the centre of town - their eldest brother's position as an elder member of the Mormon Church had resulted in it. The building itself still stands, but neither man can force themselves to enter.

They stand there, expressions set. The rest of the town, all around them, from the church to the very back wall that lead towards the manufacturing area of town, it was a still portrait of life interrupted. It's barren, however. Empty.

Peter stares mutely straight ahead, but his shoulders are shaking. Gradually, the tremors get more and more violent until it's uncontrollable. He's crying then, and the sound jerks Anthony back into the present and he snaps his head around. The noise of his brother's sobbing is loud - loud enough to draw attention. So he faces the younger man, he's at a loss - in more ways than one - he doesn't know what to do.

"Stop it." he grunts, but Peter is lost in a confusion of grief and panic. "Peter... stop it. Stop it!"

Finally, Anthony grabs him in a gesture that is halfway between violence and comfort, holding him as the younger brother rocks back and forth. Neither of them knows how long they are stood there, but when they hear the sound of something snapping, they both turn around violently. Anthony makes to raise his pistol, but he pauses at the last minute, his jaw going slack. Peter lets out a gasping sob.

"You know, if I was a White Leg, you'd have died." a few feet away from them, identical Carolina blue eyes narrow under the rim of a newsboy cap.

"Daniel!" Peter leaps across the space to embrace him as if he were salvation itself. Stood in his father's leather jacket and a pair of hunting boots, Daniel wraps his arms around his younger brother and presses his mouth against the younger man's hair. Anthony just lets out a noise of relief, lowering his handgun properly as he approaches slowly.

"Thank the Lord." Daniel grunts, pausing for a few moments before pulling Peter away slightly, checking the younger man's face.

Anthony fixes his brother with an unreadable, but heavy look. "You saw them?" he asks. Daniel replies with a wordless nod. He saw. "You hurt?"

"A few burns... bruises... nothing significant." Daniel's brow lowers as he glances around. "You?"

"Got clipped during the fight last night. Just a scratch."

Just a scratch. Bruises. A few burns. They're both stood in dirtied, sodden clothing. Anthony's hair is caked in grime and mud, blood splatters up one side of his sleeve. Daniel has a charcoal kissed bruise on one side of his face and he's completely soaked through. Anthony sighs then, compared to his brother, he's thicker in the shoulders, but considerably less groomed. His hair is clipper cut short and he's got a scruff from a week of remaining unshaven. "Where are the others?"

Daniel gives him a long, significant look. "Water tower. We managed to get thirty or so people into hiding. It's enough. For now." then he swallows, seemingly dreading the worst. "Have you seen Adam?"

Anthony shifts, looking down. He blinks. "I thought he was with you."

"No, he was with the other two."

They both look towards their home then, but Daniel's gaze is taken towards the still-burning ruins of what was once the church. He makes a noise of pain and moves towards the house. This doesn't go unnoticed. "The church?" Anthony asks.

"From the first floor up."

The second oldest Ryker brother hesitates. His voice breaks and although he wasn't a big fan of the Bishop, he narrows his eyes in sympathy towards his brother's turned back. "Daniel..." he can't get the words out, and Daniel just shakes his head.

Jerking the door open slowly and pulling his handgun from out of his holster. He moves in slowly, checking the corners, lowering himself a little as he steps somewhat gradually, uncertain. Life in his house is at a standstill. The table is still set for dinner, candles lit, an open book tossed against the sofa. One of Daniel's boots makes the floorboards beneath him creak and there comes a noise from the cellar. The oldest brother freezes, expression firm as he moves towards it, gun pointed. But, after a moment of consideration, he shoves it into the waistband of his trousers and rips the door open.

From the root cellar, a young boy, around the age of thirteen appears. He's fair haired, but he's undoubtedly a Ryker - they look strikingly alike, even with skin that is dirty and tear-streaked.

"Adam!" Daniel practically drags him out, embracing him hard as he buries the boy's head in his coat. When he pulls him back, bending down slightly to look him in the face, the boy recoils. He's disoriented. "Hey, look at me." Daniel grimaces, his thumb tracing the angry red mark under Adam's left eye. "Where are Sam and Johanna?"

Adam shakes his head, firmly. His eyes flicker towards the kitchen and Anthony turns, he does however stop in the doorway. And his voice breaks. "I've found Sam."

Peter drops his head, shoulders shaking. Daniel just wordlessly grips hold of the youngest, fingers straining.

"We can't just leave him... the White Legs... they'll do that- they'll..."

Anthony shakes his head at Peter, gaze flickering towards Daniel. "We can't afford to waste time."

The oldest Ryker lowers his chin, starting at his brother's head. "Johanna?" his voice is clipped, older - he's too beaten up to summon up the required emotion.

Again, Adam just shakes his head.

Daniel rips his head up, starting Anthony down. "We'll have to check the water tower."

Getting to the old pre-war water treatment building is difficult - you have to cross main avenues to even get towards the more industrial area of town. Daniel grimaces as he moves about the house, shouldering the strap of his father's rifle and eyeing his brothers warily. Anthony doesn't know what to do with Samuel's body - some part of him doesn't want to go anywhere near it. Peter is no longer saying anything; he just stands there, clutching Adam. The boy hasn't spoken much either, but that is not much of a rarity.

The next few minutes are going to be very, very hard for the boy.

"We'll have to be quick about this - Peter, make sure Adam gets there..." grimacing idly at the way Peter seems almost unsure of himself, he turns towards Anthony. "You know what to do."

Anthony does, and he grips his handgun as he moves towards the front door, covering the elder brother as he braces himself and moves out into the street rapidly, checking his corners. When he gets into the street properly, he nods back at them.

Time to go.

* * *

{| **II** |}

* * *

"She said you were sleepin'."

Daniel snaps his head around and frowns. Anthony stands in the cave entrance way, hands in his pockets and expression unreadable. He looks road weary and regards his older brother with a sense of unease. It's only when he walks in further that Daniel realises. While he is unkempt as usual; Anthony's eyes are bloodshot.

"Anthony." Daniel greets stiffly, leaning against his knees and jerking his chin towards the spare seat tossed over towards one side. Anthony pulls it up closer. Then, he buries his head in his hands. "You've been informed?"

"What, that Mister House's highly esteemed Lieutenant, the formidable Courier Six, is currently wearing your clothes and sleeping on your gear? Yeah, I have. Unless there is anything else I should be knowin'." he says wryly, as blasé as normal. Daniel makes a noise, snapping his head towards his brother and giving him a frown.

"You're more informed than any of us."

Anthony gives him a shrug, as if it's not so much of an accomplishment. It isn't, really. He has never stayed in once place for too long. Anthony is more like his father in that way; he was out on trading routes more often than anyone. "She's from the Mojave alright. Won the Second Battle of Hoover Dam too, you know? With an army o' robots, or so I hear." He studies her from across the room, unsurprised. "I don't know how mucha' of it is true, but considering how it all came from the NCR…" he trails off, shrugging his shoulders again. "As much as I appreciate being in the loop of things, DJ, I'm curious as to why you've even bothered to involve yourself, never mind me. I thought you wanted to get out of here as soon as possible."

"I do." Daniel grunts.

"Well, I ain't much of a nurse, if that's what you're thinking."

Daniel can't help but laugh at that – Anthony really isn't, at all. He knows more than anyone. "No. Things are... taken care of at the moment, but your enthusiasm is noted." he sighs then. "It's not her I'm concerned about right now."

Anthony leans back against the chair, squinting up at his older brother. "Oh?"

"You remember that group I sent out to meet with Peter? The mothers and children, they had a group of men with them too." he grunts, and Anthony brings his head up, thinking.

"Uh, yeah. I think."

"I haven't heard from them since."

Anthony gives him a look, mouth slightly agape. He frowns then, if only a little bit. "Want me to find out what happened? Peter thought they got there ok."

"Peter led them to the Colorado River on his own; the men still have to make their way back."

"Thought this place seemed emptier." he scratches his beard, then gives a curious look over towards Daniel's own, he's grinning then. "You've got a bit of a mountain wastelander look goin' on there, you know."

Daniel snorts. "You can hardly speak for yourself."

"I _am_ a mountain wastelander, just a religious, well-educated one." Anthony he gives his brother a long look and twigs something up pretty easily. He doesn't have Daniel or Johanna's skill for medicine, or Adam's talent when it came to machines, but he's still very intelligent... he just doesn't like to show it in public, which is interesting, really, because acting like a smartass is one of his defining talents. "You're worried and not just about the Sorrows. So, c'mon, spit it out."

"What?"

"You're looking the same way you did when you found out that Sarah Kingston was an 80'." he says idly. "Either she's done something to piss you off, or she's making you nervous."

"Don't bring that woman into this." Daniel groans. He's not sure which one he even means.

"I told you she'd come back to bite you on the ass." Anthony makes a face. "I don't know what you saw in that PMSing wraith, DJ."

Daniel gives him a glance, lip curling upwards. "That's a _lovely_ thing to say."

"You're welcome, on account of you and your poor ass." Anthony pointedly ignores the sarcasm.

"It's after she's done healing." Daniel explains, staring down at his shoes before pinching the bridge of his nose. "What the heck am I supposed to do? She shouldn't be here, Tony."

"Course she shouldn't, but she is." Anthony frowns. Turning his head and examining her for a second time. One look at Daniel's scrunched up face and he grunts, folding his arms and letting his head fall backwards. "Look, you want options on how to get rid of her, DJ? Fine. From what I hear, the Courier is a liability and a half – enemies made out of both the big ol' NCR and the Legion, so you don't need my blessing to do what you want with the woman in my opinion." He begins to tick off his fingers, one by one. "Dump 'er back in Zion and forget this ever happened. Send her on her merry way without any form of map and her die in the wilderness, or just stop treating her and let her die of whatever the hell she's going through." He gives his brother a long, hard look.

Daniel scowls. "What the heck is wrong with you?"

Anthony gives him a grim look. "I never said any of those options were right, DJ." He leans back again, crossing one leg over the other. "But nothin' else comes to mind, if you wanna' find a way to get rid of her without getting involved." He sighs, knocking his boots together. "You know, this could be the break you and Joshua needed."

"Oh?"

"Look. She needs the maps to get outa' here, right?" Daniel nods. "If anything, then you ought' to help one another out."

Daniel grunts. "I don't see it going any other way. We need supplies; she'll need maps to get out of here. I can't give one without getting the other in return. That's not the issue – it's making sure Joshua is on board. He still wants to go all out."

"Perhaps." Anthony shrugs. "She came in with a caravan. Lot of the group died, but from what I gathered from the Dead Horses, two of them made it out and went up Eastern'."

"So she's not the only one."

"Nope."

Daniel exhales into his hands.

"Then she stays, for now."

Anthony snorts. "Just make sure she doesn't turn out to be another Kingston." He pauses then, slowly and hesitatingly, as if remembering something. His voice is grave. "Adam…"

Daniel's head snaps upwards so quickly his vision blurs. "What about Adam?" he demands.

"It's not good, Dan."

Collapsing against the back of his chair, Daniel exhales. He knew it was never going to be good. "How bad?"

Anthony just manages to sound grave. "All the stability you managed to create back up at Dead Horse Point is pretty much gone. It wasn't exactly subtle, DJ. He's more distressed then when Canaan…" Anthony divers his gaze and shakes his head. "He hasn't uttered a word – he's withdrawing. He's signing a little, but he's not engaging. Screaming a lot. Johanna can't get him to cooperate, and hell Daniel, she's not in a good condition to go fighting with him as it is. She's got the two of them to think about."

Daniel grimaces, closing his eyes momentarily for a few moments and rubbing at his eyes. "The usual diversion tactics not working?"

"Not at all."

"I'll see what I can do from here." Daniel sighs. He knows however, that it will not be a large amount. If anything. He simply can't give the support Adam needs from here, nor can he go back to provide it. He's too occupied. "But until I get to the Staircase there isn't much I can do for him." He divers his gaze. "How is Johanna?"

"Not much better. Suppose she's healthy, but it's not great. She's got Peter at least."

Daniel doesn't know what's worse. Knowing that his family is suffering, or knowing that he can't do a thing about it. He'll have to speak to Joshua about this, though he's not sure of the good it'll do.

"I'll set off tomorrow, see if I can find anything."

"Thanks." Daniel turns towards Anthony and looks him in the face, gaze locked. "Seriously, Tony. Thank you."

Anthony shrugs. There's not much to say.

* * *

{| **II** |}

* * *

"Daniel."

With a pent up growl, Daniel lowers the .45, and sighs in relief straight afterwards, turning to look up at the overcast sky. The rest of the survivors are a few hundred metres behind him, half hidden behind a ridge. Anthony and the rest of the remaining guardsman are the only ones exposed, dotted around a varied one hundred metre radius, rifles hesitating on the four people before them.

"Joshua." his throat hurts when he grits it out.

The smouldering ruins of New Canaan acts as a backdrop and Joshua Graham stares at it absently, something in his eyes change, his shoulders stoop.

Daniel can't look him in the face after that.

"We're too late." The Malpais Legate says to himself, or to the three Dead Horse warriors behind him. Then he turns to Daniel, crystalline blue eyes scanning his face. "White Legs?"

Daniel nods. He can't really speak. Seeing Joshua here is as terrifying as it is reassuring.

"The Prophet?" he then asks and when Daniel shakes his head, he adds, a little more tentatively. "The Bishop?" another shake of the head and Joshua looks down, gripping the shorter missionary's shoulder. Hard. "They'll be mourned."

Daniel doesn't know what to say. Or really, what to even do. So he just sort of stands there, getting soaked as the rain continues to pour down. It's letting up now, actually. Joshua isn't supposed to be out in the rain and that thought makes Daniel grimace. "Some welcome home." he grumbles. He's not quite sure why he says it and the slightly crease between Joshua's eyebrows shows he doesn't either, but the man has the grace not to say anything. Instead, he gives a curious look at the bruise on the side of Daniel's face, before examining the rest of him in one quick glance. A few seconds of pained silence later and he looks over the top of Daniel's head. He's squinting.

"Where are the rest of the survivors?"

That brings Daniel back and he shakes his head, standing upright properly. "Behind that ridge... thirty or so left, not counting the guardsmen. Altogether, us and them included, we number forty three."

Joshua exhales slowly, giving what's left of New Canaan a long glance. "Do you have a plan?" he eventually asks and Daniel opens his mouth to speak, before shutting it again soon afterwards.

There's no point in pretending.

"No, do you?"

Joshua is hesitant for a moment. "I... expected more to survive."

"They attacked before we could mount a defence." Daniel explains, why, he's not too sure. "They were on the fifteenth metre by the time we even realised, after that it was just full blown panic. I was on the tenth when the alarm went up." shaking his head, he manages to look Joshua in the face, properly. "We need to get out of here... It's safe to bet that they'll still be scouting the area for survivors."

"We should move further up the river." Joshua states, eyeing the three tribals over his shoulder.

He came here expecting a fight.

Daniel's had enough fighting for one day. His hands are still bloody from where he stabbed a White Leg on his way out. "That spot over near the outlook is defensible."

Joshua's brow rises ever so slightly, but he nods after a moment's consideration. "Do you have enough supplies to get that far?"

"We'll have to find out." Daniel sighs. He feels... not better, but more stable. He's been a walking wreck ever since he's been leading them away from the town. "I don't think they would have destroyed all the supply caches... that might be something worth looking into."

That's that, decision made, but they still stand there, awkwardly. Joshua's hand is still on his shoulder and it suddenly tightens, fingers clenching. "... I'm sorry."

"There was no way I could've got him out. He was upstairs." Daniel whispers, harshly. Fists bunching up, he shakes his head. "We... really aught..."

"... 'But our citizenship is in heaven, and from it we await a Saviour, the Lord Jesus Christ, who will transform our lowly body to be like his glorious body, by the power that enables him even to subject all things to himself..." Joshua recites and Daniel nods, slowly. It's familiar and it's reassuring, to hear the words. "He'll be missed, both of them, but a greater fate awaits." another squeeze and he gives the group behind them a long look. "Let's get going."

Daniel doesn't argue. When he starts walking, the others follow.

* * *

{| **II** |}

* * *

She can feel the dull ache of slowly healing wounds when she awakes, the impressions of tightly wrapped bandages boring into her skin, a faint cool draft brushing against her face. All of it acts as irrefutable evidence that she is, in fact, alive.

She is alive in Zion.

It's this fact that Jessica Collins mulls over, a thought she takes it in her hands and turns over to see how it could be, how it occurred. It's something she did not expect, in all truthfulness. It will take some time getting used to.

She's not even sure how she even got here, in this cave, both primitive and advanced all at once with it's campfire and tribal markings, it's emergency medical kits and faint antiseptic smell. The last thing she can lucidly recall is the moment right before the attack, after that, it's nothing but a frenzied selection of half images. Perhaps it was a hit to the head, or the bullet wounds she had previously substantiated. Perhaps she doesn't want to remember.

A few things Jess can remember, if only slightly. Small pieces of information that grasp for her attention; little details she can't ignore whenever she closes her eyes. Walking, stumbling, then crawling; her leg submerged in warm blood. Creatures staring at her from the canyon walls, likely waiting to make a meal out of her. Dead. She should be dead.

Which brings her back here, Jess supposes.

Until now, she had only seen and heard a few things. Voices ringing in the dark; some of them fast and high pitched, others deeper and slower - the occasional shout. Panicked, then suddenly cut off with a strangled cough. The images were harder to make out; sometimes there had been whorls of blues and pinks and yellows that curled in her vision.

One time, she managed to stay awake long enough to make out the bandage wrapped around her leg and the black plaid colour of the shirt she was clothed in. Not hers. That much was plainly obvious. It smells of lingering gunpowder, smoke, chemical disinfectant and something unique she can't rightly place. It's too big for her; baggy around the shoulders.

If anything, the only definite thing Jess could discern was the sensations as she drifted in and out of consciousness. Hands on her, never poking or prodding, but applying pressure, the lift of her limbs and the pads of fingers occasionally skimming against her neck. The latter only ever happened with the second pair of hands, much larger than the first, rough and firm - but professional and practiced. The first hands were lighter in comparison, hesitating sometimes and gentle the next. The first set of hands never checked her pulse. She wonders why. Aside from this, there was only the alternating states of pain and numbness.

But now she lies here, in this unfamiliar place.

Somewhere past the opening that leads into another part of the cave, there are signs of life. She can hear a shuffling movement, the faint clink of a handgun rattling against it's holster, multiple barefoot pads.

Jess had tensed up at that, wondering if anyone would return here. She's not sure if she should even be awake. Consciousness came with a sudden, violent pull.

Forcing herself up, she momentarily winces when she feels the dull pain in her middle. When she tries to stand, that pain intensified by about tenfold, but in her leg instead. A curiosity glance shows that she's in a pair of shorts and just past the hem, she can see the lining of gauze. The whole thing reminders her of waking up in Goodsprings, with the layers of perfectly positioned bandages, properly tied, well conditioned.

It's not just her leg either, there is another wrapping on her upper left arm and a few of the cuts on her hands, legs and even, her face, have been tended to with steri-strips. Jess did not expect any of this treatment, especially from a place that was supposed to be filled with tribals.

Once she gets a better sense of her surroundings, Jess moves over towards the other section of the cave slowly, the ground underneath rocking with every step.

She had one goal: to follow the noises that seeped through the opening. If someone around here had the capacity to heal her, then surely, someone around here had answers. She knew how she got here, in some sense. Someone must have found her - the fact that she had awoken in a reasonably comfortable, warm and dry place instead of the bottom of some cavern was what mystified her; kept her going.

After having gone so long without it, the bright light had hit her with full force and made her lull to an eventual halt. The images around her slowly began to form and it made her dizzy, so much so that she had to hold onto a series of crates to keep even remotely steady.

Just a few feet away, a male stood. He was frozen in place with his back to her. She couldn't make out much, the pressed fabric of a collared shirt was one observation, which was then followed by the identification of some form of the holster, which carried a handgun and the vague rectangular shape of what she'd later come to know as one of his scriptures. When he had turned swiftly, handgun raised and ready to fire, she had nearly recoiled.

Jess had expected him to fire, or perhaps to even shout, but instead what was an intense look of fear soon turned relived, then mildly nondescript. There was a tightness along his jaw, then the sudden sound of handgun being forcibly shoved back into it's holster.

For a moment, she was wondering if she was having some kind of feverish hallucination. He wasn't what she would expect in a canyon full of tribals. Or even a mercenary for that matter. Modestly dressed, well groomed, good posture. Even though Jess was often considered a force to be reckoned with, she decided close to instantly that this individual was not one to trifle. She could tell from a mile off; he was well fed, broad in the shoulders and generally looked like he could kick her around from one side of Zion to the other without much difficulty. Especially in her current state.

"You shouldn't be up." it's not much of an accusation, but more of a simple statement and it catches her off guard. She wants to ask something, to demand why she is here and who he is, but no sooner then she goes to stand her legs suddenly gives way. The space between them closed rapidly, his hand darting out and slipping against the desk, sending numerous metallic items to the cave floor with a crash.

It's here that it's evident that he's no hallucination. That he was very real; warmth and a slightly frenzied heartbeat, flesh and bone. He was solid fellow, merely standing there and taking the majority of her weight as if she was nothing. The skin pressed up against her cheek is burning and after a few seconds of awkward silence, he suddenly inhales, chest surging.

Then, without missing a beat, he starts manoeuvring her into a more comfortable position before bringing her back to where she was originally.

Once she's settled again, she decides to ask for his name. How he identifies himself will likely give her an idea of who she is dealing with. She shakes her head when he asks if she remembers him.

"Hi, I'm Daniel." his tone couldn't have sounded any flatter if he tried, she thinks. "The one who stitched you up with the feminine elegance of a thirteenth century farmer."


	3. False Truths and Uncertainties

{| **III **|}

Zion

: **III** :

_False Truths and Uncertainties._

* * *

With a pent up sigh, Daniel leans against the table's edge and closes his eyes. The last few hours had been far busier than what he was used to and coupled with the random periods of… nothingness such as this, and he has found that his sleep schedule is getting more absurd than it was originally. If he sits back down, he's pretty sure he'll fall asleep again.

Which is precisely why he doesn't. Instead, Daniel had found himself pacing up and down the narrow's walkways for the better part of the morning, only stopping once and awhile to converse with the Sorrow's he came across. The day seems to have been long, too long, almost, but early mornings have started to have a sense of purpose now. Even with his somewhat narrow set of skills, Daniel can't stand around and mope when there is work to be done. As is his nature. This trait had not gone unnoticed by everyone else. His late father did not lovingly determine that he was 'More stubborn than a temperamental bighorner' for nothing. Daniel had defiantly earned it; as Ryker, he'd be surprised not to. Much to his mother's everlasting exasperation, he's reached adulthood and yet he still shows no signs of outgrowing it. At least he's putting his energy into being productive instead of brooding.

It's easy to be passive when it doesn't feel quite real yet.

Daniel puts all that aside as he shuffles through the few physical maps he possesses. He's surprised to say the least, that Joshua himself hasn't yet made an appearance. Though if Daniel was being completely honest with himself, he doesn't really expect it to last. They are long overdue for another shouting match. That thought in particular makes him groan and he rubs the bridge of his nose. It's not working. He needs something else to do before he goes mad. Something more occupying then pushing papers around.

So he finds himself systematically moving through his work space. Organising his tools, cleaning the general area, re-ordering supplies. Keeping busy is better than being idle and alone with troublesome thoughts and painful memories. He scrubs down one of his scalpels, shirt rolled up at the elbows and he mentally plans on tackling the scissors and every other instrument he can find next. He's in the middle of fixing a loose set of dressing forceps when he hears it; a definite shuffling of bare feet that cuts through the faint sound of rushing water and his occasional grumps of frustration.

Daniel goes quiet and strains to listen, but the noise stops. His handgun is still in his holster, so he doesn't bother, just goes back to his fiddly little task. The cave systems here are filled with Sorrows, even if they do tend to leave his particular area free for his use, so he's not too surprised to hear bare feet at all, but he finds himself unnerved and in a hurry to finish. The second time he hears it, he's drying his hands on a nearby towel. It sounds less like the carefree but practiced footwork of the Sorrows and more like someone with uneven footfalls.

At once, the back of his neck prickles with alarm, but he doesn't move from his spot. Another step and whoever it is pauses again. Positions are suddenly reversed and he rips his handgun free without thinking about it, turning and raising it, jaw tensed.

He immediately zeroes in on the figure on the other side of the room. Like always, his finger is wrapped around the trigger on frenzied instinct.

The woman is half-leaning against one of the crates shoved over to one side; her pale eyes lit with a haunting clarity, but she's not some monster of any improbably proportions, nor is she a White Leg, so he lowers it, painfully slowly, because he can't seem to extinguish the slight undercurrent of distress.

She doesn't look any better than he does; stooped over and greatly rumpled. Her expression is blank, considering, but he notices the darkly circled eyes travelling between his face and the gun he's still half pointing at her. It's hardly the warmest of welcomes, he assumes with an idle grunt and he lowers it completely before sliding it back into his holster.

"You shouldn't be up." he tells her, grateful for the fact that his voice is even and calm. His heart-rate, however, is taking a little longer to adjust and he grimaces harder.

What the _heck_ has he got himself into _this_ time?

For a moment, he thinks she might speak, but instead she moves to straighten up. She must have must miscalculated the strength in her legs, or her grip on the crate because she sways unsteadily before lurching forwards. Without thinking, he rushes over, hand slipping against the tray on the table, sending it and around a dozen or so instruments onto the floor and she sags into him, hard. He doesn't buckle under her weight, because heck, if he's built for anything its heavy lifting and she hardly amounts to a cumbersome amount of weight, but she's about the same height as he and has caught herself in a crumpled position which looks more than a little painful. A low moan vibrates against the side of his neck and he remembers idly, that if she pulls her stitches out, she's in a lot of trouble.

It's plenty awkward, but he doesn't do anything but stand there like an absolute idiot. He doesn't want to jump back in fear that she might fall, so they stay that way for a lingering moment; pressed against each other so close he can feel the gentle rise and fall of her chest. When he'd been a kid, he'd gone to a dance with one of his cousins, totally innocent, but Mordecai had been adamant that they had to, and he quotes, 'leave room for Jesus' between them. They were nine, but regardless. Now, however, Daniel is pretty sure there was no room for Jesus between this woman and him. He could feel the buttons of the shirt she was dressed in digging into his chest.

Mordecai would be _horrified_.

Well, he'd be furious, first. Then he'd be horrified. Priorities and all.

Inhaling suddenly, he tilts his head ever so slightly and manoeuvres her into a far better position, sliding one arm around her and acting like a crunch. "I'll help you get back to bed." He grumbles without meaning too, and he's suddenly far too warm. And uncomfortable. He doesn't know if he would be more embarrassed for accosting her with a firearm or throwing himself at her. Perhaps both. Yes, both would be reasonable.

She winces as he lowers her down enough in order to move onto his sleeping bag. Without thinking, he just moves into a professional sense of duty and fixes the pillow, before giving her an idle glance. "Do you need anything? Painkillers?" She shakes her head, then pauses for a few moments, eyeing him.

"Who are you?" she asks in a gravelly voice and he pauses, as if he doesn't know the question.

"You don't remember then?" she shakes her head again so he just sighs. "In that case." he gestures towards himself apathetically. "Hi, I'm Daniel. The one who stitched up with the feminine elegance of a thirteenth century farmer."

She opens her eyes and looks at him. He doesn't feel a stab of fear like he had anticipated, perhaps the warm light reflecting on her irises, or the way the shadows play on her face, but there's no trace of her former threatening self to be found. "Another doctor?" she asks, and then smirks as if this is some kind of private joke.

"You make a habit of getting shot at?"

He just manages to stop himself from glancing at the two scars above her left eyebrow.

"Of getting shot... yeah, you could say that..." she trails off, then blinks suddenly, as if remembering something."I'm Jess." she says and he just nods. It's better than 'The Woman' at least. Her eyes shut tightly as she shifts around in an attempt to get comfortable without magnifying the pain. He frowns.

"Are you sure you don't need anything for the pain?" she shakes her head.

For a small, minuscule yet utterly hopeful moment, he thinks that the subject will never come up and the two of them will be mutually submitted into a happy ignorance as strangers with no potential underlying problem. Just a beaten, weather worn doctor and an inevitable patient. But, then she asks in a gravelly voice, "Why are you doing this?"

Daniel falters. Perhaps not obviously, but inwardly, he falters. The answer he tries to formulate pretty much evaporates before he can even open his mouth. It wouldn't have sounded terribly convincing. Not at all.

The truth is, he's spent a good few hours of his spare time asking that very same question. There aren't a lot of people in the wasteland with kindness to spare for anyone who isn't kin and, really, Daniel isn't one of them. He _really_ isn't. At least, he's not an enthusiastic participant.

Each answer he's come up with just never seems to be satisfactory. In fact, there's only one thing he's certain of and that is there is too much he wants to ask her. A bunch of questions that, if answered, would really give him a greater peace of mind.

Who knows? He could have just spent countless supplies on a threat. At least if he knows, he'll have a better idea of what to... _do_. So he ticks his head to the right ever to slightly, folding his arms. "Why'd you come to Zion?" it seems like a perfectly good place to start.

She gives him a curious look.

"I guess we'll never know why we do the things we do." She murmurs in the way of reply.

He doesn't know how to respond to that. So he just storms over towards his spot on the ledge and paces for the better part of the afternoon.

* * *

{| **III **|}

* * *

It's 2257, and after a twelve hour guarding shift, Daniel's father drops him and his little brother off at Monday morning services.

Daniel doesn't let go of his father's hand, but instead, tips his head back to stare at the man straight. The senior Ryker doesn't hold his gaze. He never often does. "You really ought to go." he tells his oldest son instead, rolling his shoulders. It makes his .45 clank inside it's holster, shining dully in the morning light. Three-year-old Anthony laughs. He's always laughing.

Daniel's six, too young and too timid to ask the obvious question in his mind; "Why should _I_ go and _you_ shouldn't?". Instead, because does try to do as he's told as often as possible, he grabs Anthony's pudgy little wrist enters the building with heavy reluctance, walking down a long corridor and towards the back room where the children's services are held. It's summer. It's warm. Daniel regrets wearing a shirt, necktie and jumper. So he rolls up both his sleeves up to his elbows and struggles to undo his top button. Anthony gets away with just wearing a t-shirt. Pulling open the door, he peers into the space. Toddlers are on the floor, the boys his age are yawning and the older girls sit at the back in cotton leotards, slouching and whispering.

Grabbing a scripture for both of them, Daniel gives the seats a glance. The back ones are taken, so he chooses one up the front. It's a bad idea. He thinks. It's a really bad idea. He watches as Anthony struggles to clamber onto the seat beside him.

"Little kids go on the floor, Tony." He tells his younger brother with a faint frown.

"I'm not!"

"A little kid? Yeah, you are."

"I'm not!"

Daniel just takes his seat, ignoring the way Anthony grins victorious. "Don't blame me when Mordecai starts yellin'."

"I'm nooooot!"

The door swings open and the whole room goes into a tentative silence. Daniel swallows. Perhaps, just perhaps, this week will be better.

The Man of God steps in with an energized flair, he doesn't look like he's in a bad mood and Daniel hopes that such is the case. He picks on people when he gets angry. Asks for answers you won't know nor understand and then use it to make an example of you. At first, Daniel thinks that this won't be the case today, but when Bishop Malcolm Mordecai spots Anthony's chubby little body sat next to him, he spins around. Then he's looking right at them, and Daniel knows that it's a bad day. He slides down the back of his chair so he's smaller and avoids the Bishop's gaze.

"Aha! Another overachiever in the Ryker Family!" he barks, pointing towards Anthony. The three-year-old's face blanks, as if thinking this through, before he bursts out laughing again. Daniel grimaces. The rest of the children are looking at him.

The Bishop stalks around like a giant, hair thick and dark and stuck up in odd ways. He wears a long robe and when he speaks, he starts flailing his arms as he talks. He tells them a Bible story, he asks them questions and he strides across one side of the room to the other. The Bishop is, by all accounts, a bit of an oddball. He continued to wave his arms around as he lectured and raised his voice to tone-cracking volume and pitch the further he delved into a subject. Usually, he elaborates further on whatever subject was brought up in main service, but today Mordecai decided he'd completely neglect whatever Jeremiah Rigdon had to say for one of his own. Of course however, Mordecai being Mordecai, his little discussion did not stray all that far from the Living Prophet.

Today, Mordecai's lecture was about, above all things, deception and dishonesty. And he kept on mentioning Hell - but again, Daniel was very familiar with Mordecai and knew this to be a... permanent interest of the Bishop's.

Mordecai believed that the Living Prophet actually wasn't the Living Prophet, but rather, an imposter and a bigot and other words Daniel knows better than to repeat.

"Dishonesty!" the Bishop shrieked. "I suppose you all know what that word means. Hm? Corruption, malfeasance and exploitation!" he hissed the word, eyes shifting across the room, as if he was trying to frighten his young charges. Daniel is not afraid of the Bishop, but he's not all that comfortable around him either. "Ex-ploit-_ation_! Do any of you know the true meaning of these words? The truest of all forms?"

Daniel opened his mouth, but then he shut it again before the madman could spot him. He only knows this because he's been on the receiving end of this lecture before. Mordecai likes to ensure that Daniel, being his primary Godson, is well educated on such matters. Daniel just finds it tedious.

The Bishop flailed as he roared anew; "Deceit! Who can tell me what this most heinous of vile acts is? Anybody! Daniel! You tell us, boy - what is deceit?"

Daniel swallowed and half shrugged, looking helpless when being singled out. Mordecai stares at him for a few seconds and the boy decides that if he's going to deface the Living Prophet, he's better off doing it in Mordecai's general vicinity. "Misleadin' people on purpose, sir."

Some of the older kids, the ones who know of the unspoken defiance that splits the community of New Canaan, cast glances in his direction. They know what Mordecai is getting at.

Keep digging that hole of yours, Daniel.

Mordecai offered him a cruel little smile, before nodding furiously. "Precisely! Any act of intentional deception - Deceit! And let me tell you, all of you! There is nothing more shameful than the deception of your brothers and sisters, there is nothing - absolutely nothing, more shameful than the deception of our dear Lord. It's the most insulting of sins, to trick your fellow brothers and sisters, it'll send you straight to Hell!"

The Bishop suddenly calmed himself, breathing deeply and smoothing his hair down. "Now, not only is it wrong, but no lie can be told forever, it will come undone. Can anyone suggest the consequences of deceit?"

Looks were exchanged around the room.

"You'll get pulled up in front of the church, sir?"

"The Sheriff's office?"

"Your mother will find out and box your ears in, sir?"

"No, no, no!" Mordecai shook his head and his hands. "Honestly, boys and girls, it's the most punishable of crimes. Banishment! One who commits treachery will be cast away from the flock! Look at all those NCR squatters outside our walls, they commit sins and they pay the price! Anybody who deliberately leads their brothers astray will be punished above all, for it's the most untrue of crimes. Deliberate. Treacherous." Mordecai strides across the front of the room, drawing close to where Daniel is sitting. He feels a flush of heat. He asks then, silently, he asks God to somehow make him invisible. Please, God, please.

Really, it's his most fervent prayer of the day.

* * *

{| **III **|}

* * *

She never said anything after that and he had left shortly after, neither of them seemingly satisfied with what the other had to say. Jess frowns at the cave roof above her, idly considering the gaping space. It was to be expected, she guesses. Clearly both of them had been caught off guard and left on edge with a lot on their minds. At least now she has a sense of why she was here. He was a doctor, well, perhaps not an _actual _by the book doctor. He wasn't like Doc Mitchell or Arcade or Julie. That much was certain. Regardless, she had found herself in a... _Society_ advanced enough to provide medical aid. Though by the way Daniel regarded her with pointed apprehension, she's almost certain that this isn't of his own violation.

Jess wonders how much he knows about her.

But she can't help remember his own wayward little introduction. It couldn't be helped; she had to open her eyes at that remark, to look at his face. Surely, it had been a joke. It was too sarcastic and generally untrue not to be, but it felt like such a long time since she last witnessed any form of humour. In fact, the last joke she had heard had come from a light-hearted caravan guard, a bitter jester, poking harmless jibes at the world around him with a carefree air. With this man, however. Daniel. It was different. Forcibly drawn out, almost.

He didn't look like the man to joke - that, Jess can plainly see. His entire demeanour screams of lingering terrors. He's world weary. Tired. Dealing with undefeated demons. Something bad is happening here, that much she knows. The evidence of healing gun wounds is enough. It's interesting - and perhaps a little frustrating - how she often finds herself in places and meeting people that are in need of fixing. Zion is seemingly one of those places and because she, at a push, understands, she sighs and relaxes her muscles.

It wasn't long ago that she was in the very same position, metaphorically speaking.

She must be on her guard; careful not to disturb the tenuous equilibrium here. Every link to her previous life must be cautiously dealt with and obscured. In this condition, she is completely powerless in this new territory, but there is nowhere to go, no other option available. Surviving the attack and then, the wilderness of the canyon was a small victory compared to what will come next.

Jess bites her lip. Jed. Stella. Cass.

Perhaps they got out. Perhaps. As she lies there in the semi-darkness, Jess clenches and unclenches her fingers. Perhaps.

* * *

{| **III **|}

* * *

Nearly twenty minutes passes before someone approaches her. A woman wearing little more than dark blue loincloths slips through the archway towards her. She's balancing a plate on her left hand and Jess realises, after a few moments, that she knows her face. It had floated above hers in a rare, unobscured moment of consciousness. She was the one who had spoken soothing words and smiled reassuringly. As opposed to the oth- _Daniel_, she corrects, who just rambled medical terminology to himself and seemed in a general hurry to get everything over and done with.

She gives a little start when she catches Jess staring at her. "You're awake!" she exclaims, looking pleased.

"Ey, sweetheart?" a voice faintly calls from the other side of the cave. Footsteps. Heavy and firm. A younger man appears and Jess frowns. For a split moment, she thought Daniel had returned; they had the same dark hair, blue eyes and a subtle... something. But then she dismisses the thought because this male was slightly shorter, if broader in the shoulders and where Daniel was clean and generally groomed, this man was nothing of the sort. They were similar, yet at the same time, they were completely different. He stops dead, the tails of his pre-war military coat flapping around his lower legs when he spots Jess, eyebrows shooting upwards in evident surprise.

Then, just like that, he turns towards the tribal woman and competently ignores her, as if she didn't bother him in the slightest. "You seen the Vicodin?" he asks. "Can't find the sodding bag." The tribal woman regards him with subtle suspicion and suddenly, it's like Jess isn't in the general area at all. Her brow lowers and she places both hands on her hips.

"Surely he moved his herbs for a good reason, no?"

"DJ said s'fine." he replies.

It seems like the appropriate response, because the tribal flicks her hand over behind her shoulder and his gaze follows it, then he tramps off in that general direction, face screwed up in evident pain. Jess is surprised how... Unaffected he is with all of this, then, she might be holding him to a high standard. The tribal woman looks at her again. "Holadu, Na'ne. It's nice to see you awake." She says and Jess shifts to a higher sitting position, disregarding the white-hot pain crackling in her leg. The woman speaks with heavily stressed broken English and it surprises her, for some reason.

"Jess." trying to hide the way she grimaces in pain, she looks towards the tribal with a small strained smile. "Please, call me Jess."

She ignores her with a wave of the hand and strides towards the sleeping bag. "Try to remain still. You should avoid any sudden movements." slowly, the tribal woman re-arranges the pillows behind her. Then, after a second of what looks like hesitation, she does a rudimentary once-over; checking her pupils, peering at her bandages, taking her pulse. "How are you feeling today?"

Jess nods. "I feel fine. Better than I could hope." She pauses for a moment, struggling to find the right kind of words and then, clears her throat. "So... what's your deal?"

"Waking Cloud is my name. I am midwife to the Sorrows." the tribal, Waking Cloud, and then pauses as she thinks that over. She smiles then. "It sounds ill-omened, no? 'Midwife to sorrows'."

"Midwife?" Jess is just about to ask, but at the last second, the male returns with a small bright orange bottle. He's busy shaking the contents into an open palm.

"My brother, Daniel, has other obligations - _wow_, that's lame... uh, lemme see. There are other things important- no..." he clicks his tongue, looking at Jess for a few seconds with a searching look. "It's far too banal, you wouldn't really understand. Too teenage angst." Waking Cloud must be looking at him scathingly, because he backtracks. "What?" he asks with a crooked grin, before tilting his head towards the tribal and glancing at Jess. "Waking Cloud 'ere is one of Daniel's first converts, she's learning medicine. When he's... occupied, she tends to whatever needs tending in his place."

Jess nods. Of course; they're related. "And you are...?"

The male looks winded for a few seconds, pulling an exaggerated face of pain. "Ah, where are my manners? The name's Anthony, darlin'. Begrudging translator and wildboy extraordinaire." tipping his head back, he swallows the contents of his palm dry. Then he turns towards Waking Cloud and his manner becomes more business-like; his posture straightens, shoulders squaring. "Daniel says to give her dinner and a small dose of painkiller if she feels any discomfort - the usual, he says it's in the same box. If she needs anything more, brew some willow bark tea. You're in charge while he's..." he gives a glance towards Jess. "Well, you're in charge."

"You are not staying?" Waking Cloud asks, a frown threatening to form upon her features. Anthony shakes his head.

"Gotta get back to the rest of the pack, y'know?"

The tribal's face lightens up at the mention of 'pack'. "Give them my regards."

Anthony manages a grim smile. "Course," he hesitates. "Look after him, yeah?" Waking Cloud smiles, then nods. He tilts his head as he turns back towards Jess. "Ma'am." and with that curt farewell, he's gone again. Jess watches the silenced marksman carbine slung over his shoulder with mute interest.

Waking Cloud too watches him go, but with a strange sort of smile. Soon afterwards she rips her gaze away, shaking her head and wandering over somewhere behind Jess' head. She can't turn around to see what she's getting, but when the tribal comes back, she sets a tray down on her lap. There's a set of faded silverware on one side, just beside the plate she had seen Waking Cloud carry in. To the left is a bottle of water and on the plate, a selection of cut up foods; chopped things that are easy to swallow. Jess spoons a bit of the food, chewing and swallowing it without tasting it. She glances up, expecting the tribal to leave once satisfied but she takes a seat in the chair by the sleeping bag, observing quietly with her hands folded on her knees. "Do you like it?"

"Yes. It's very good." Jess takes another spoonful for show.

Waking Cloud smiles, then nods. "Anthony is not often here. I wish he was. Daniel misses him greatly." she sighs, fiddling with a loose bit of thread hanging off her clothes and shakes her head ever so slightly. "After New Canaan, I feel he is not the same man I knew before."

Jess raises her eyebrows. "How long have you known him?"

"Six years. He attended the birth of my third child." she smiles with fond reminiscence. "It was a hard birth. The River nearly carried my water to the Father, and my child's with it. Daniel knew the ways of New Canaan's medicine. He stepped in and saved both of our lives." Jess blinks, lowering her fork slowly. "After the birth, I asked Daniel if he would teach me what he knew about childbirth. He agreed, and so here I am."

"That was good of him." Jess mummers, looking down at her own dressings peeking out from under the shirt she's dressed in.

Waking Cloud nods. "Daniel is a good man. Wise, and a great friend to the Sorrows. He taught me to speak the language of New Canaan - the... English from the holy books." the slight mispronunciation of the word 'English' makes Jess smirk, but she wipes it off her face before the tribal can notice. It's hardly fair. "Though now, I wonder if I shall be one of the last to learn it."

"Why?" She doesn't mean to be intrusive; the stimulus of the conversation is actually helping her keep awake. She's still weak, but she doesn't feel as inclined to lie back down again.

"New Canaan..." Waking Cloud looks surprised. "Don't you know?"

Something akin to cold fear runs through Jess' chest and she frowns, shaking her head ever so slightly. That's why she's here, New Canaan. She thinks back to what Jed had said. About them not having any contact. She swallows.

"The White Legs came down from Great Salt Lake, an army of them. They fell on New Canaan before their..." she struggles around the word, as if speaking it for the first time. "Their, _militia_, could mount a defence." Waking Cloud shakes her head ever so slightly then. "I do not know much. Daniel does not like to talk about it; none of them do. It is a painful tragedy."

Painful is a bit of an understatement. Jess stirs the soup, the metal clinking against the bottom of the porcelain bowl. She doesn't have much will to lift it to her lips. Especially not now. Waking Cloud watches her and she forces a smile. "You really don't want to eat?"

Jess shakes her head. "I don't have much of an appetite."

"That's all right. Your stomach's shrunk from not eating very much. Tell me when you get hungry again. There's a whole pot left." She takes the tray, putting the glass of water on the ground beside Jess, and leaves momentarily. She's out of sight when she greets in surprise, "Daniel! I thought-"

There is a muffled response, words Jess can't make out and then Daniel returns. He's not wearing his hat anymore and his collar of his white shirt is snapped up around his neck. He gives her a glance, then pauses as he smooth's it back down again, looking disgruntled. "How are you feeling?" he eventually asks, guardedly. It's an attempt to be polite, Jess guesses, so she extends the same back.

"Much better. Thank you."

He grunts. "Don't mention it. Really. It's nothing."

Jess raises an eyebrow. "Nothing, eh? I'd be dead otherwise. You saved my life."

"Follows Chalk was the one who found you." he shrugs. The mention of this makes him grimace and pushes his hands into his pockets. "The Dead Horses told me details about the attack on your caravan..." Jess nods, tentatively. She can't look at his face. "A stranger's sympathy might not count for much, but," he shrugs as if to say 'well here I am'. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry." he looks back over his shoulder, then back at Jess. "The Sorrows will mourn your friends, too. They mourn everyone, even the White Legs. They have sensitive souls. Innocent, if there is such a thing." a strange sort of smile threatens to form, but then he huffs, before shaking his head. Banishing the expression before it can show. "In spite of what happened, once you're up on your feet, I hope that Joshua and I can help you out of here."

It's a while until Jess feels like she can speak again. "I sense a 'but' here."

Daniel considers her for a few moments, jaw shifting to the left ever so slightly. Then he nods, confirming her suspicions and walks further in. "To be frank, we need your help, too. But... Not till your better." he seems pretty adamant about this, expression hardening as if he was daring her to challenge his statement. "The last thing you need is to get hurt again."

She has to nod at that. It makes sense. "Did..." She hesitates, then, but he's still staring at her, waiting patiently. He gives her the time she needs and, inwardly, she's pretty damn thankful. "Did anyone else make it?"

He pauses, seemingly thinking back. "Anthony mentioned two people making their way to the Eastern Virgin. I have a colleague there - a friend. If they made it, then they'll be well looked after."

She can't help but show the relief. "You ought to get yourself cleaned up," he announces briskly, striding up to the other side of the sleeping bag. "There's an area the Sorrow's use, clean, so don't worry. I don't think we'll have anything that fits you so I suppose that'll have to do for now," he waves at the region of her torso for emphasis and she realises then, first with alarm, then amusement, that it's his.

"Don't you want this back?" she asks and he snorts, perhaps not with the same amusement, but it's hardly disregarding either.

"I have enough. For now." She takes that as a maybe. "It's close, I'll take you there."

Getting out of bed to stretch her legs sounds like a good idea, but she's not too thrilled about having an escort. "There's no need to trouble yourself, really." She hedges, conveniently disregarding her fantastic near-collapse a few... whenever ago that little embarrassing moment was. "I'm sure I can handle it on my own."

The look Daniel gives her was incredibly unconvinced, and he folds his arms. "And risk you falling over the side of a crevice? Drowning in the river? I'd never forgive myself. Or you, for that matter."

Jess sighs. There's no point in fighting him about it - he's talking a lot of sense, so she eases upwards with help from him. Perhaps it's because she's shaken off the disorientation, or just because she's eaten, but she's a lot steadier. Her balance is there. "After you," she says politely.

Tilting his head, Daniel makes a slight chuffing noise in either annoyance or amusement. He shakes his head then, moving forwards. Instead of propping himself against her like he had to do last time, he resorts to just guiding her in sync with her dragging steps. His fingers rest lightly on her elbow just in case she stumbles. She glares. He ignores it. Jess isn't going to lie, she feels a little embarrassed being accompanied like some kind of prisoner or invalid. "Wouldn't think a big guy like you would be afraid of a little old thing like me." she says idly and he snaps his head around, startled. She smirks. A little manoeuvring might get her out of this... whatever fix she's in here. If she doesn't know what she did to disturb him so greatly, then the least she can do is apologize for the misconduct she's aware of. Mainly, scaring the living daylights out of him.

"It's hardly on purpose." he says. "I'd have likely done the same place, if I'd have woken up in a strange place." he huffs, grimacing slightly. Then he gives her a sheepish smile. "Perhaps I overreacted."

"Overreacted?" she parrots back and he clenches his jaw.

"Threatening you with a firearm was a bit reckless, I guess." he turns towards her and gauges her expression, then he raises his eyebrows and stops walking. Regarding her again, he tilts his head backwards. "It _wasn't_ on purpose. I've already made up my mind, you know - as long as you're here, you're safe. Even from me." he looks immensely peeved, but his voice is levelled. "Whoever you are, whatever you are. You're not here for me to punish."

After feeling like she's held in her breath all day, she exhales. "I understand."

"Fantastic." he deadpans. He's just about to start walking again when he turns to look over his shoulder. The peeved look doesn't quite let up. "And please, stop looking at me like I'm going to push you off the side of the canyon at any moment. It's not going to happen."

"Oh?" she can't help but grin and, with a surprising amount of effort, he mirrors it.

"Not even if you get on your knees and _beg_."


	4. That Complex

{| **IV **|}

Zion

: **IV** :

_That Complex.  
_

* * *

It takes four days for Joshua to make the first move.

Daniel has to admit - it's a solid one too. Well thought out. Incredibly actually, given the fact that the former Legate generally doesn't usually have a good mind for tactics. When it comes to it, it's usually Daniel that does the planning. He's abstract enough to keep sight of the bigger picture, yet concrete and generally smart enough to pay attention to the little details. Joshua, mostly, handles the execution of said plans - what he lacks in tactical thought, he makes up for in practicality. That, and there's just some things Daniel can not and, most importantly, _will not_, do. It sounds calculative and more than just a little bit cruel to have Joshua do the things he finds uncomfortable, but at the end of they day, Daniel doesn't exactly have to ask.

If the situation allowed it, Joshua would have already wiped out the White Legs by now. That much is certain.

On the back of the letter he had Follows-Chalk deliver, there is a response. Four of the Dead Horses are injured - seriously enough for Joshua to be asking for Daniel's help. The Dead Horses' have reasonably good healers, yes, but none of them have ever performed emergency surgery before. Hence the request.

Daniel frowns as he examines the medical bag's contents again.

The unexpected sound of laughter is what finally draws his attention away from his supplies he's examining, or at least, trying to examine. He's not paying attention and this he realises abruptly as he blinks, frowning himself back into the present and resting his hands against his waist. He knows what he needs, in some sense. He just doesn't know what to expect - Joshua hadn't exactly gone into detail. In the corner of his eye, he watches as Waking Cloud emerges, shortly followed by that Courier - Jess. She doesn't seem to bother the midwife in the least and at this moment, they're chatting about something Daniel can't hear. The sound of rushing water drowns it out.

Waking Cloud's trusting nature is easily one of her best and worst of traits.

Daniel can't help himself; he lets out a grump of laughter. He never thought his worrying would ever have extended from White Legs and Yao Guai all the way to mysterious holier than thou Couriers. He knew he was pretty bad with it, yes, but he didn't think he could get _this_ bad. He's been told, time and time again, mostly from his own sister, that he has a horrifically intrusive protective complex, but only now is it starting to aggravate him as well as it does others.

Yet, while he's wary enough for the both of them, he does his best to keep it well hidden. He's come quite adapt at sharing the same space as the Courier without cringing, speaking to her without faltering and managing to meet her gaze without breaking it. Even now, Daniel downright refuses to let her see how much she affects him and so far, it's hardly been difficult, there has been varying amounts of success. It's not fair to go showing discomfort when she clearly hasn't done anything wrong. The only wrongdoing she had done was making him jump, trivial as that was, and she had apologized regardless.

She's stronger now, the Courier, able to sit up and walk around on her own. The bruises have finally faded too. In fact, the only evidence of the condition he found her in is the hesitant half limp. If he wasn't so grateful, he'd be alarmed at how quickly she was recovering. Rest, a new set of clothes and regular meals have brought her a league away from what she was before, but all of this - all of it, is obvious from a doctor's perceptive.

No, it's the details he had shut out for the past fifteen years that are becoming readily apparent.

Three times, three damn times, he's had to admit to himself that, heck - she's a pretty handsome woman.

Daniel has never been one for such typical intentions, he really wasn't. He's always been too uninterested, too preoccupied, too generally subdued to care what the girls in New Canaan looked like. He's only really registered it with his sister and that, he saw it often; how men would glance at her at any given moment, how she managed to grasp their attention at the smallest of provocation. As far as he is concerned, any expression of masculine attraction pretty damn terrifying, from the standpoint of a big brother who had practically raised her, it's close to threatening. The term makes him recoil in disgust. Attraction. It doesn't sound right, even in his head. He banishes it away.

There is something else, however, something that is tugging at his awareness. Something he can't quite pinpoint. It's more annoying as it is concerning. Daniel's brow works into a knit as he tries to determine just what it is that is disturbing him.

"Daniel," his gaze snapped towards Waking Cloud, almost guiltily. "You're not going to stand there all day staring, are you?"

"What?" He frowns again, momentarily confused and looking back to the open bag again for a simple lack of anything better to look at.

The Courier walks forwards her gaze immediately fixing on the bag, then, on Daniel's own attire. She's summing something up pretty quickly. He's not in his usual clothes; he's in his old hunting gear. Well. Not all of it, really - he last went hunting when he was at fifteen, and his shoulders have filled out pretty ridiculously for his height since then; none of his old shirts and jackets actually fit him. They belong to Adam now. Daniel thinks he'd have to lose an arm to fit in them again, and that would just be cruel. He grimaces as he shifts his shoulders.

Jess folds her arms, looking something between annoyed and frustrated. She's figured it out.

In the past two days, she's been increasingly more eager to get out and do _something_, as apposed to just wandering around the camp, but Daniel had managed to be convincing enough thus far - last time she'd complained, he had told her, quite bluntly, that she was free to do as she pleased, but if she managed to get herself into another scrape, he wouldn't be running back out again. It wasn't true, of course... but she didn't have to know that. Now, however, she's getting more and more agitated and quite frankly, he's running out of creative threats.

Then she lifts her left hand up and the professional part of him immediately takes on what's wrong - it's quick, quick enough that for a few seconds, he doesn't even know what could possibly be the matter with what he's looking at, but he gets it sooner rather than later. Hand tremor. He ticks his head to the right ever so slightly, considering it.

"I take it this isn't normal?" she asks and under the annoyance, there is a hint of concern.

Daniel shakes his head, pivoting towards the left as he does so and kicking out a chair from under the table. He motions for her to sit. "Let's take a look."

She does, but she's frowning. "I don't know what you're gonna see - Doc Mitchell couldn't find much, and he was the one digging in around in there."

"I have my ways." Daniel mutters absently. He's not that interested in keeping the conversation going, but politeness somehow always wins out, so he obliges her. "I need you to look at my finger and follow it as it moves." standing right beside her, he crouches down and waves his hand in front of her face, expression scrunched up in concentration.

Jess sighs. "Waking Cloud has mentioned you a bit."

"All good things, I hope?" he asks coolly, stepping behind her back and then without warning, snapping his fingers right next to her left ear, then her right, causing her to flinch.

She doesn't react to his comment, but rather scowls, spinning around to face him. "What are you doing?" He just grumps in mock offence and tilts her head back around.

"It's good that you flinched."

The Courier tries to sense what he's got up his sleeve next, but he's right in her blind spot. "She seems like the kind of person who could say good things about Caesar if you let her."

Daniel laughs. "I'm glad to see confidence in her ability to read people." Then he steps backwards, moving over towards one of the bags he's long since left dejected and roots around. He finds what he's looking for after a few moments of frenzied searching and goes back into her blind spot without a word. Setting his jaw, he covers her eyes, using his ring and little finger to close her right nostril. It leaves her momentarily confused until he shoves something under her nose. "What do you smell?"

"Cardamom."

He switches the object and then, the other nostril. "This?"

"Coriander."

He lets go of her head and walks past towards the table. "You know your spices," he comments idly. "And you have to give Waking Cloud credit; it's very rare that the Sorrows find people to actively hate."

The Courier shakes her head. "To be honest, I don't think you should trust anything I say; you're checking me for brain damage." She frowns then, tilting her head. "Do you carry around two different spices in case you run into brain damaged people on a daily basis?"

Daniel continues to examine her as he speaks. "No, not exactly." He shrugs, "Okay, now smile for me... they go well in certain foods, comfort, if you will - now clench your teeth- it reminds me of home. Now, whistle."

"I can't." Daniel is left concerned on professional level and his expression apparently reflects that, because Jess notices and clarifies soon afterwards; "I mean, I can't like - I never have."

He relaxes at that, if ever so slightly. Well, that is indeed reassuring. "Right." He racks his brain for a few moments, glancing back at her. "Pucker your lips like you're pretending to be a fish."

Unexpectedly, her eyes widen. "A what?"

"A fish." Daniel repeats, then it hits him - very nearly literally, he was that close to sending a hand to his forehead. Of course. She's from the Mojave. She'll haven't come across one before, at least, not living anyway. "Ah, right. Or like you're going to kiss someone." She does so and he steps behind her again, firmly palpating the muscles in her neck. His level of confidence must prompt her, because she gives him a curious look as she asks.

"How long have you been a doctor?"

It's a question he's been asked a fair few times in the past, so he automatically corrects her before he can stop himself. "I'm not a doctor, at least, not anymore," but he decides to answer her question all the same. It takes a little bit of effort on his part, pushing through the math. "I started studying when I was fifteen, then took up training when I was eighteen - two years of it was spent as missionary... and then went back to work full time for another six years afterwards. So about, let's see- twelve years in all, if you count the two years mentoring and the ones spent in New Canaan."

When he walks around again, she holds his gaze for a little longer than he is used to. "So you aren't now?" He shakes his head, deliberately turning himself around so he doesn't have to give her the full answer.

"It lost its appeal." He dismisses the question with a faint frown, despite the fact that she wouldn't have been able to see it. She's about to say something when he turns back around again, but he interrupts her. He doesn't mean to be rude, he's just... uncomfortable again, and slightly pained. He doesn't want to think of the reason why. "Hold up your arms," Daniel looks at her trembling hand seriously for a moment and compares it to the other one. "How long have these tremors been going on?"

"Since I woke up."

Daniel nods, then, giving her a sympathetic look. "It's the medicine. It should wear off soon and I think you're passing the point of chronic pain, so taking them again may not be necessary. As for- well..." he waves at her head for emphasis. "Nothing serious going on there."

She seems glad, surprised, but happy none the less. Suppose she never thought to even survive, let alone reach the point of no medication. Daniel glances away darkly, clenching and unclenching his fists.

"Where are you off to anyway?" she asks and he takes the distraction gratefully.

Daniel sighs, he trusts Joshua - but, God willing, if this goes wrong someone's losing hands. It's a bad idea, but then, it's better then the as-of-currently-nonexistent plan he has. "A few of the Dead Horses are in need of assistance, I'll be heading up there in an hour." he considers her again then. "There's a waterproof in the duffel over there." Daniel jerks his head in the general direction of which he is referring to, considering his holster spread out on the table before him. Now it's her turn to be confused and instead of elaborating properly, he concentrates on fixing the fiddly object, adjusting it so it actually fits over his body-armour, shirt and jacket. "I don't know what it's like in the Mojave, but it tends to rain in Zion and getting pneumonia is the last thing you need."

She makes to say something, then shuts her mouth suddenly. A few seconds pass. "What happened to sticking 'safe and sound'?"

Daniel shrugs. "Another pair of eyes on the trail wouldn't hurt - well, it might hurt, but not if we're careful."

He pretends not to notice the smirk on her face.

* * *

{| **IV **|}

* * *

Moses attempted to substitute his brother. Adam tried to hide in the Garden of Eden. Jonah - likely one of the more successful, jumped a boat end ended up getting swallowed by a whale.

If there's anything Daniel has been taught about man, it's that they have a tendency to run from God. It is, as he sees it, something akin to tradition. So perhaps it was only tradition that when, as soon as he could pretty much walk, Daniel started running from Bishop Mordecai. Of course, the Bishop wasn't God, neither was he the Living Prophet, but to a lot of New Canaan, the ones who had come up from New Jerusalem and had supported the Bishop for years, Mordecai was the next closest thing. The holy man, the big boss, the Bishop. Daniel's parents had been part of his congregation from the beginning and when Daniel was an infant, he too had his place.

Yet, once Daniel came to properly realise just who Mordecai was, he ran. He wanted absolutely nothing to do with him. If he saw him coming down the street, he ran. If he had to pass his house, he ran. Even as a teenager, if Daniel so much spotted him approaching, he turned around and went back the way he came. It wasn't exactly possible the majority of times - he was his godfather, after all, but if he could get away with it, he took the opportunity with both hands.

Mordecai was a big man - six foot one and Daniel had to admit, even as a fully grown adult - even though he was more than capable of putting him down, he felt incredibly inferior in his presence. When he looked down through his glasses, Daniel was pretty certain the Bishop could see all of his sins and shortcomings.

And really, Daniel can't deal with that.

Man likes to run from God.

And Daniel did run, he ran right up until he stopped in his tracks and started walking back in the opposite direction. Right up until he realised that no matter what, he'd never go fast enough - never far enough.

* * *

{| **IV **|}

* * *

Most of the time, her experiences with Daniel was limited seemly to observation. Like a lot of the Sorrows, she watched as he delivered brief but frequent sermons for those tribals he had converted, wander around the camp on halfhearted patrol and tend to the hurts and wounds the Sorrows had managed to pick up. Jess wasn't going to lie, on top of it being some form of recreation while she was left in an idle state of discomfort, the missionary also acted as something to study, from afar at least. Over the course of a few days, she came to know him quite intimately. It was was easy, if nothing else. While it had simply been noticed before, the sudden bracing of his shoulders when he was approached became something committed to memory, the ease in which he melted into work, quietly and content, became familiar.

Jess does this for two reasons, the first is simple - the more information someone has, the stronger their position. Daniel may have extended trust and mutual appreciation, but he still presents a very capable threat if need be. It doesn't hurt to know a potential danger. She knows this from bitter experience. As for the second, well, she's intrigued, that much is simple.

And, concerned. If only slightly.

She had awoken when she had first heard it, the muttering. It was distant at first; almost inaudible, but when came the grimacing and the shifting and Jess had known. She hadn't tried to do anything. It felt as if she had stumbled upon something incredibly personal and she, quite frankly, hadn't known what to do. Nightmares are often trivial things - common, but waking up four times in one night surely isn't what one would consider 'normal'. Daniel was fretting about New Canaan in his sleep and that had been an immense deal in itself.

Then he had woken up too, slamming upright and barking something incomprehensible. He'd stopped mid-word, surprised, before either realising where he was or what he was doing previously, because he'd collapsed soon afterwards. Head in his hands and grumbling quietly to himself. Rather than make a scene, she'd closed her eyes. In good time too; he'd spun around to see if he'd been caught in the act.

Now, stood on an incline of land with an unfamiliar handgun in her grip looking across the large expanse of Zion, she's afraid to mention it. Or even acknowledge it. What's worse, is that none of her earlier minutia gives her any advantage in this particular setting. In the Mojave, she's become adept at deciphering people's next moves, or strongly influencing them, but here, with Daniel, he's still contemplative; considering the weight of his promise to his aversion. It was one of the first things she had learned, to keep your home advantage - but that's just it, this isn't her home and while this canyon may not be his either in definition, he's clearly acclimatised to it.

Daniel has traded his usual hat for that of a shorter newsboy cap and having pulled against his brow so the sun isn't resting on his upper face, he takes point. It was late in the morning, but the light of the sun just barely peaked over the canyon walls. The thick shade of darkness was now being slowly depleted by it's rising; and somewhere, far above, a flock of birds chirped as they flew past. Birds. Actual birds. Jess smirks in idle amusement.

Minutes passed and the surroundings began to change ever so slightly. Daniel hadn't wanted to walk through the river - the water was cold and deeper in the majority of places and that's not something he wants to have to deal with. Jess couldn't help but agree. So instead, they walk across the ledges, pretty high up, but not high enough to reach the very edge of the walls. She wouldn't have been able to climb out, especially not in this condition.

Daniel's not exactly a chatty sort of person, but apparently he doesn't like pressing silence anymore than Jess does. Within a few minutes, she decides on her usual coping method, the one she often had to resort on using with people like, say, Boone for instance; ask them a question that requires an in-depth answer.

"So..." she walks a little faster to meet his pace and he snaps his head around to look at her, eyebrow half cocked in question. "You said you weren't a doctor anymore, then what is it you do here?"

Daniel looks away, kicking a stone and sending it flying off the edge as he thinks. "I used to help them - the Sorrows, that is, with various medical problems. I was introduced to them during my period as a compulsory missionary, after that, I just..." he shrugs. "Fixed general issues. In the end, my bishop ended up sending me here on permanent placement. They were familiar with me at that point; they'd be more comfortable listening to me than some stranger." Towards their far left, something snaps in the middle distance and they both turn their heads, but since it was several dozen feet below them and out of their range, they just continued on. "We New Canaanites believe that there is a path to salvation for everyone and it's important that we set people on that path if they are willing - hence, me."

"You said you "used to" help the Sorrows with problems." Jess inwardly smirks, she knows what he's doing. He shifts - he knows he's been caught out. "What do you do now?"

"I'm trying to make amends for allowing our problem to become their problem." He grits out suddenly, before checking himself and letting out a low grunt. "The New Canaanites, I mean. The White Legs; the tribe that sacked your caravan, they've always fought with us. Now though, Caesar has motivated them stamp out the New Canaanites entirely and that," he sighs. Hard. "That means the tribes we work with too."

Jess frowns at him for a few seconds, considering. "That's... an awful lot of responsibility to take on."

Daniel shrugs, using the motion to shift the paramedic's bag further over his shoulder. "It's happened before, with other tribes. We go in - always with good intentions, but things end up going wrong." He looks at her then, dead in the eye. "When that happens, you can't just... leave them. Abandon them to die at the hands of New Canaan's enemies."

That makes a whole lot of sense, Jess supposes, so she shrugs. "Tell me about Joshua."

"I'm sure you know an awful amount."

"Not like you do, though." she scans his face for a moment and he smirks. "How long have you known him?"

"What's with this third degree?" he counters, but shakes his head soon afterwards. He's still grinning, so she doesn't back down, just stares back at him levelly. "Just over four years now." Much to her displeasure, he recognises the faint look that crosses her features and slows ever so slightly. "You don't have to worry, you know - he's... nothing like he was before."

"I'll be face to face with the formidable Malpais Legate," Jess gives him a look. "Can you blame me?"

Daniel tips his head away from her slightly. "Well, no." then something crosses his mind and he looks back at her. "Just don't call him that to his face, it makes him..." he struggles to find the right word. "Difficult."

"Difficult?" she parrots, slipping him a rare genuine grin and he snorts.

"Don't get me wrong, he's never been anything less than amiable when he can help it. It's just that his equivalent of a sulk is as tedious as it is uncomfortable."

* * *

{| **IV **|}

* * *

"Daniel - boy, shut the window."

Suppressing a sigh of intense annoyance, twenty-two year-old Daniel Ryker leans against the desk before him and props his chin up with an open palm. Really? He pointedly scowls across the room towards where Mordecai is sat; the old bishop is prowling over several volumes of Pre-War origin. Ignoring him.

His tone is far more forceful than he was originally expecting. "Mordecai, I've just _shut_ the window."

He knows that Mordecai can't exactly cross the room to shut it again at his own whim, but that's not what annoys Daniel, it's the whole concept of him struggling across the room in his wheelchair to open it again - a few minutes after Daniel has just shut it. At. His. Own. Request... that he finds immensely grating. The bishop says nothing, just glances at Daniel from over his glasses. He's not going to get anywhere with this.

Fine.

Bolting out of his chair with a huff, the younger man shuts the window with an exaggerated amount of force, locking it for good measure, even though he knows it won't do squat. Mordecai pays little attention his apparent frustration; Daniel wished he would. It would give him something to vent it out on.

Usually, he'd be horrified with himself but he's been doing _nothing_ for the better part of an hour and he can't stand it. He feels like he's going insane.

So he tries small talk - he's been out of New Canaan for close to two years now and while he's been brought up on a lot, there's still a lot he's missed. The weather. The neighbourhood. What had Mordecai used to fill the void of stressing his Godson out while he's been away. These are a few examples of what he tries, arms folded firmly over his chest as he wanders around the room. The shelves are crammed with books and files, several decades of collecting. The desk that Daniel was previously sitting at was covered in letters and notes. There were open boxes everywhere, things the bishop had been reviewing. Or, reorganising perhaps, but Daniel suspects that such is not the case. He's the one who tidies things up. He can't stand clutter.

Clutter annoys Daniel more than Mordecai does.

Mordecai looks forlornly at the open boxes for a few moments.

"It feels, boy, that I have forgotten much of my life." he says and Daniel tilts his head to look at him.

Then he snorts. "It _takes_ another life to go through this." Daniel grumbles bitterly.

"Ah!" the bishop looks up and gives him a rare smile - genuine, not that twisted little thing Daniel's used to seeing. "Clever, clever!"

Daniel's upper lip twitches in a vague sort of smirk, but he turns around on his heels and grimaces to himself. It felt strange, making Mordecai laugh. It was sort of special and disrespectful at the same time. He doesn't want to think about it, but in the two years that he's been gone, Mordecai was no longer the man who always looked so large from his seat in the crowd. Here, now, he seemed much smaller. More frail. He'd lost a few inches to old age. His broad cheeks sagged now, and while his smile was still confident, and his eyes still narrowed into a wise, thoughtful gaze, he moved with the practiced steps of a person who worried about falling down, mortality now arm in arm with him.

He both wanted and dreaded to ask. How long?

* * *

{| **IV **|}

* * *

"You want to stop? Now?" Daniel asks. They're a good three quarters of the way there and the sun is beating down on them fiercely.

Jess sighs. Part of the decision to take a break sprouted from exhaustion. She's still quite weak, weaker than she had felt the day before and while she'd love to do nothing more than just power on, the Courier knows that such is unwise. Wouldn't want to overdo it. Not at all. The other part of this decision is distinctly more selfish, but all things considered, equally more practical.

"Look," heaving a heavy sigh Jess flings the pack she was carrying - her things, or rather, the things that the Sorrows had provided for her, onto the ground to rifle through it more effectively. She doesn't understand it, but all the stuff you always need or want seems to fall towards the bottom. "I'm overheated, I'm sweaty, and I smell like a dude." Daniel makes a noise of protest and she tilts her head up, smiling sweetly. "No offence." He looks like he's about to say something else, but she holds a hand up, slicing him then and there. It's an interesting concept and, even more interestingly, he doesn't seem that bothered. Oh, he's annoyed, but less than she expected. "I'm going to take a _minute_, right? A minute to get cleaned up, as this is the third-likely looking place to do so we've walked past. I'm not presenting myself to Joshua bloody Graham looking like this." Daniel raises an eyebrow at her, as if he's about to say that it doesn't matter and Jess will admit, he's right, but regardless. This is a meeting that may very well dictate her future - the future of everything here, the less like a scruffy backwards Wastelander she looks, the better. That and she has standards, thank you very much. "So, if you don't like it, just... sit on that rock there with your back to me. I don't want you wandering off and leaving me stranded... ahaha!" cackling, she pulls out her prize.

Soap.

"We _really_ need to make haste." Daniel settled on the rock, probably having already come to the conclusion that she wasn't going to argue - he could simply trudge along by himself, but they both know he won't.

Jess turns around to look over her shoulder at his turned back and smirks.

"Tell me you like travelling with a smelly, sweaty girl. Missionaries aren't supposed to lie, Daniel." came her calm rejoinder.

Silence. Silence, followed the snappy comment - but then, a resigned sigh. He shakes his head; she can see it from here.

Snickering, Jess knelt at the edge of the river and peeled her shirt off. She was so sick and tired of feeling half-human she could kill something. So, as they haven't come across anything wanting even remotely hostile, it's as good a time as any. "I won't be long, I promise." She hopes this addition will lighten his mood somewhat. She knows why he's going, what's going on and it sounds dead frivolous, but honestly, she's the one walking around in the same clothes she's worn for three days, smelling like a supermutent.

She scrubbed quickly, washing her clothes as well - you don't just strip down into nothing in the wilderness, after all - and dressed in a more comfortable attire, wrapping the damp clothes in her packed waterproof sheet, to keep everything else dry. Not the best thing for the clothing, but she figures that she'll never get the blood out of it - so why fuss?

Why fuss indeed? She shook them out of the waterproof and hid them under a rock. They're beyond salvage by now anyway - she needs to be practical about this. While she no longer had the benefit of wearing her own clothes, the things Daniel had so graciously - and, reluctantly, she thinks - donated wasn't all that bad. The shirt is too big though, perhaps not in length, but it's too wide and flaps around her frame. Same goes for the pants. It should be a crime for someone to be so short yet built up at the same time - nothing ever fits. Regardless, she decided that she could deal with it. She felt a hell of a lot cleaner and hell of a lot more human. "Ok, you ready to go?" she asked, turning to look behind her again. Daniel still sat with his back resolutely to her. "I'm decent."

He turned, nodding his head with a pretty offended look on his face, as if he was saying 'of course _I'm_ ready.'

"Don't worry, I'm sure they'll be alright." she thumped his arm, noticing that even though she did it very gently, he still flinched as if he'd been struck properly. Well, he's not one of her usual companions, after all - she supposes the gesture is pretty out-going and unexpected. "Oh, damn - sorry."

Daniel shook his head and prompted her on a topic of his own, which he attempted to answer with a shrug, accompanied by varying levels of detail. He seems to be used to gregarious people - if that brother of his is any indication. It makes her wonder why he's so damn twitchy, especially since he seems pretty gregarious himself. Makes her wonder why he's even a missionary at all - he doesn't seem suited somehow, good nature and faith aside.

Perhaps he's a doer - maybe that's why they're getting on so well.

* * *

{| **IV **|}

Eugh, how I detest filler chapters. This was mostly written to give me some practice, as well as developing a bit of ground in regards to Daniel and Jessica before all the heavy hitting stuff comes in, I.E, Joshua. Regardless, thank you all for the reviews ^^ Especially to those who are guests and therefore, who I can't reply to in return.


	5. The Commitment of Friendly Rivals

{| **V **|}

Zion

: **V** :

_The Commitment of Friendly Rivals._

* * *

Today wasn't exactly going the way he'd hoped.

"Down!"

There is a moment, a split second before the explosion, where the entire world just seems to stand still. It wasn't like with the Tar Walkers, Daniel had noted absently, painfully, as he'd spun his head around to face the direction in which Jessica was facing in light of warning. There were a few frenzied milliseconds and all the air seemed to be sucked out of the general vicinity, like the canyon itself was taking some kind of horrified gasping breath. He'd been standing just before the steps of Ranger Substation Peregrine then, in the agonising slip of time preceding what was likely to be a very, very nasty turn of events.

He should have moved. Done something. Anything. Yet he didn't. His feet should have been moving, but they weren't. It was kind of ironic, actually.

But Daniel hadn't noticed that. Jerking his head away from where it was pressed against the ground, he clambers onto his elbows with only one seemingly lucid thought.

There's sand in his mouth.

He can't remember how he happened to get sand in his mouth - well, now that he thinks about it, clumsily grabbing for his handgun as he struggles to make out just what he's actually looking at, he's not very sure of anything at the moment, besides the fact that he seems to be alive -_though, that could be up for debate_, but the fact that he has sand in his mouth most defiantly is the most concrete. He gags. Oh yeah, it's there alright. Coating his teeth and tongue in a gritty metallic-tasting sludge that he realises, with an odd sort of detachment, seems to taste a good deal more like blood than it probably should be doing.

So, he thinks, after a moment's hazy contemplation, that there's _blood_ in his mouth and suffice to say that development in particular was rather sickening on a number of levels.

He blinks, then, after a few seconds and having fallen back against the solid frame of the Station, he barks out through a sore throat.

"Jessica!"

Something snaps. Jerking, the corner of his scripture digs into his lower ribs from where it was strapped against his holster, just under his arm. Its presence makes him relax somewhat instinctively.

"I'm alive!"

She is indeed; he can hear her moving towards him with that particular half limp he's used to acknowledging without actually acknowledging. Now that he knows she's alive, he can focus on the main thing; the blood has to come from somewhere... unless it's not his, and someone else's, which makes the whole situation suddenly a heck of a lot more problematic. He feels the inside of his mouth cautiously with his tongue and, to his surprise, finds a definite lack of missing teeth or open wounds. The inside of his bottom lip appears to be split, if only slightly, so that's defiantly not it.

A tentative attempt to breathe through his nose reveals the source of the rest of the blood; alarmed, he heaves up a poor amount of it, given that it is pouring copiously down the back of his throat. Bringing his free hand up tentatively, he manipulates the bridge of his nose firmly, hissing out and tightening the grip around his handgun when he comes to the conclusion that it's broken.

So far, so usual. He lowers his hand, then idly thanks the Lord that it's his nose, rather than anything more severe.

It still doesn't explain why there's sand in his mouth, though. He spits it out some more with an intense level of difficulty. Now there is _less_ sand in his mouth. Yet still no explanation. How the hell did he get from being on his feet to being on the...

The second explosion was smaller than what he was originally anticipating. Perhaps it was nerves - fear, or it was his memory playing a factor, but either way he expected far worse. The grenade is tossed over the side of a nearby rock formation and it tumbles down a few feet before exploding, by that point, Daniel has heard the faint clank - remembered what _that_ particular noise means and had half dragged the limping Courier behind the stairway again, behind some form of cover. Before them, there is the lick of fire ahead along the middle span of the immediate canyon, some six or seven feet away, blending into one in the distance. The shrapnel dug into the floor at various intervals and the ground was kicked up and disturbed from where the force had an impact. The huge ball of varicoloured fire belched outwards, before coming in on itself and seemingly vanishing, leaving a series of smoke-rings to float more slowly after it.

The vague shape of Jessica's head comes out from his blind spot and she's lucky that he's dazed, otherwise she'd likely be filled with numerous .45 shaped bullet holes. She seems to realise this too, but neither of them say anything about it. Instead, she just remains as she is, pushed up against his shoulder with her arm - the hand of which was armed, across his lower back. Her face scrunches up into a frown when she notices the blood dripping down onto the floor. "You're bleeding." She notes, simply and he gives her a grunt in the way of reply, dismissing it without meaning to come across as petulant. It makes her expression harden even more so and she looks as if she's about to argue, but he silences her with a jerk of the chin. She follows his line of sight.

White Legs.

They're silent killers - Daniel now knows that this was just another ambush. How long they had been stalking them, he doesn't quite know. This isn't the first time; the tribals usually hide behind trees and sneak along bushes, waiting for the precise moment to attack.

From what he can see, there's five or four of them and the first is thinner, armed with a number of throwing spears, who is shortly followed by another male, who is carrying something vaguely alike a bolt-action. The rest of them fan out along the side of the ridge. He means to get a better look, but he has to choke out another mouthful of blood, sand and spit in a gag reaction before he can stick his head out. "How do we deal with this?" Jess asks, snapping the slide of her handgun back with a soft click. Daniel examines their positions again, but he's none too sure; he's not a fighter. He's not. Sure, he can best most people when it comes up close and personal, but planning an ambush on top of an ambush is a little out of his range of qualifications. He's a missionary, at the end of the day and not even a militarized one, like Anthony, or heck, Joshua. Daniel supposed to be away from the firing line, stood over the injured. Making sure they don't lose anyone else. Not adding to the number.

"Just go with it!" He barks instead, hopelessly, figuring they'll make the most of the element of surprise and flinging the bag off of his shoulder, popping out of cover and firing blind as he runs over towards a huddle of rocks opposite them. He doesn't get to hear her reply. Skidding to a halt, he steadied himself and popped out again, firing at one of the White Leg's along the ridge. His handgun clicks dispassionately and he moves back, sliding another magazine in painstakingly. The White Leg he had been aiming at was armed with the .45, he realises, because the general area he had been a second ago was suppressed, a worrying amount of bullets hammering into the ground in its wake.

Talk about choosing your enemies wisely. He pulls the slide back, heavy weights snapping back with a reassuring clank. Perhaps he should go back to using the SMG too. Even the odds.

Then he realises that his SMG is strapped against his medical bag and he very nearly kicks himself.

There is a shout, numerous shouts actually, but the sound of pain was one of the more noticeable. One less ring of gunfire sounded in the thick of the firefight, which could only mean one thing. One down. Jessica distracted the White Leg long enough for Daniel to snap back out again and put a bullet through his leg. Another foot, realistically and he would have had him in the chest - enough to be a downer for good, but the reasons play in his favour he supposes, as the White Leg topples over the side of the canyon and falls down into the river way below them.

He gives the general area he is in a glance. If he could just get enough cover, he could make it across the ledge and-

The White Leg he was aiming at is suddenly shot clean through the skull. It doesn't come from Daniel, and he's pretty sure that it hadn't come from Jessica either, so he ducks back against the rock again before it's ends up being his skull in the firing line. It's because he's further towards the left now that he catches them in the corner of his peripheral; two of them are moving in on the Courier's position. Swearing under his breath, the Missionary clambers over the rock without actually thinking about it, crossing the expanse and firing blindly at the two approaching tribals. All seven bullets are emptied by the time he gets half way and in wayward panic - because, good Lord, this was a stupid, _stupid_ idea - he snaps his hand upwards, jerking the empty magazine out and tossing it over his shoulder.

He's about to change directions and bolt back into his former cover in serious reconsideration of his actions when someone, or something, slams into his lower middle and sends him rolling down a slope that leads downwards towards the river. Daniel imminently senses the cover, but he also recognises that has bigger problems and he automatically throws himself into that bizarre instinctual mode of self-preservation when he realises that it's a _person_ who has collided into him, lashing out at the perceived threat without a coherent string of reflection. It happens easily, all things considered. Grappling whoever was pinning him to the floor, reversing their positions rapidly so he's the one on top, thrusting his elbow out to beat them in the vague region of the face, or neck. Whichever is nearest. Whichever is going to bloody _hurt_.

"Daniel!" The ragged, deep tone grounds his panic rapidly and the missionary relaxes his arm, lowering it before he was just about to beat it towards them, but he's still breathing too hard, his jaw set and he's still with the indication to beat the ever loving stuffing out of the figure before him. Thankfully, he's more back in control than he would have been, or he would have done it by now. That much is sure. They must sense that too, because instead, a familiar grip keeps his hand from moving and Daniel finds himself staring down an immediately recognizable crystalline blue gaze.

Well, how about that.

Joshua Graham does not say anything in regards to the situation, merely half pushes Daniel off and grabs the younger missionary's .45 as he clambers upwards, sliding a full magazine into the handgun, pulling the slide back in consideration before handing it back wordlessly. Daniel takes it, picking himself and leaning against the cover. "There." he points towards the rocks he was behind originally. Jessica had managed to separate herself some from the two White Legs and she seemed to be considering her next move. There's still another three on the ledge.

"You're bleeding."

Daniel nods. "Yeah, I know. _I know_."

An angry burst of gunfire sends him back into cover, Joshua too, but he seemed to perceive the attack way before Daniel had done and was subsequently less alarmed.

"Now."

Daniel jerks his head up. "Now wha-..?"

But the Malpais Legate had already scrambled up the side of the slope so he was level with the White Legs, leaving Daniel to struggle after him. By the time he rounded the nearest rock, he got a clear view of another tribal moving across the expanse of the ledge, and fired. The first bullet caught her in the shoulder and she twisted, stumbling over enough or Daniel to get a better, more accurate shot and shoot her through the chest. That left four more-

A body falls from cover and right under him. With a pent up growl, he just manages to hop over it and he's left facing Joshua again. Beyond, a good ten to fifteen metres away, one of the White Legs runs at them, arm outstretched with a large, somewhat menacing and vaguely terrifying looking knife in their hand. Neither of them shoot in time, but the sound of Jessica's .45 sounds and the tribal drops. They try to get up. Joshua tromps off to go and deal with them.

His handgun fires, but it leaves Daniel frowning. The other tribal is nowhere to be found. He does a full three-sixty, leans backwards to consider the Station again, but everything is quiet. Except, then there is the limp and Daniel relaxes.

Joshua snaps his hand up and aims at the Courier, but doesn't fire. She draws to a halt with the paramedic's bag gripped in one hand. Daniel extends his own for it.

"What is it with you New Canaanites and confronting people with firearms?" She asks, frowning at Joshua and then at Daniel. She doesn't move any closer and for good reason, but by this point his nose was seriously starting to ache something fierce so he grabs Joshua's hand and rips it downwards, indicating for the bag again. "Jumped into the river." She says then, watching intently as Daniel leans forwards to grab a stimpack. "Managed to wound him before he cleared off though." Joshua realises slightly before he does: His jacket is too thick - there's no way a flimsy canister needle is going to puncture it. Sure, he could stab himself in the leg, but by the time he's managed to consider his options, Joshua has swiped the stimpack from out of Daniel's hand and has grabbed him by the lapels, spinning the younger missionary sideways.

Daniel threw his hand up, glancing towards Joshua with a frown. "What are you...?" Then, without any sodding warning, the older New Canaanite jabs the stimpack into the side of his neck. All the way - and with a stimpack needle, that hurts.

"Ow-OW!"

"You have a nasal fracture and you're worried about the finest of needles." Joshua raises his eyebrows, but Daniel doesn't have to see the man's expression; his tone is flat, deadpanned. Jessica, meanwhile looks rather amused.

Feeling his need to defend himself, the younger missionary pulls himself away with a noise of displeasure and slams his hand against the abused slip of skin on his neck.

"22G." He scowls. If there's anything Daniel knows that can knock Joshua down a peg, its _science_. "That's Intramuscular - and that hurts, especially when said muscle happens to be the SCM. Necks aren't designed for intramuscular needles." Or, rather, intramuscular needles aren't designed for necks, but Daniel is too flustered to correct himself at this point.

"I wasn't too concerned when you went about stabbing me with needles." Jessica comments, idly.

"You were unconscious." Daniel notifies, simply, feeling the stimpack take effect as he brings his hand away. "_You_ don't count."

* * *

{| **V **|}

* * *

The sun flickers weakly through the thin canopy of clouds far above, casting strange shadows across the rugged landscape around them as they firmly power on forwards. They cover the uneven juts of rock with a slight gait, each one of their large strides took them further along the canyon shelf, not quite running, but a motion thick with purpose. Little noise betrays them; the sound of their footsteps are dulled by damp sand and ashen dirt.

When the rocky ground beneath them suddenly drops, it may have warranted some surprise as the sudden descent into nothingness was well disguised by the growth of shabby, sun dried foliage, but rather than slowing their pace they instead plunged off the edge. Jump dropping into large expanse of empty space further down the canyon.

Yet, before they could fall too far down, a bone white fist abruptly snaps upwards and uncurls to grab the very edge of the ledge. It leaves them dangling. A pale, barely distinguishable form that flails around for the few tense seconds they are left unsupported. The strain results in a strangled grunt and in order to steady themselves, they slam the heels of their boots into the rock behind them, chips of red stone kicking up outwards and downwards. Satisfied, they turn their obscured face and examine the distance beyond.

At last. He had found them.

With an excited grin, Yamada, formerly Celer Venator of Caesar's Legion, releases his grip. Dust and chips of stone bounce upwards when he drops against the shelf below, the impact, striking a rich contrast against the pale blue of Zion's skyline.

* * *

{| **V **|}

* * *

"There – Look, the aneurysm."

Setting his mouth into a thin line from under his surgical mask, he points to the bulge with the tip of the scalpel. His bare forearms are bloody, the crimson stark against pale skin and beneath him, the unconscious form of the Dead Horse shifts upwards with every breath. So far, thankfully, steadily.

The other Dead Horse, some form of shaman, moves in to examine the hole cut into his counterpart's chest. He looks immensely put off, standing there and merely watching the New Canaanite as he pokes around.

Daniel, meanwhile continues to examine the area of interest; the aneurysm, and its rapid growth. "Makes the aorta look like it's got a balloon on top," he mutters to no one in particular, setting the instrument down on the tray beside him and leaning over the table to palpate the left hand side, frowning into the cut as he does so. Beyond the vague region of the cave he is working in, the clank of a handgun rattles. Daniel ignores it, nodding slightly as he examines the aneurysm.

"Ah, here… it won't even stay firm against a pulse; it's lost all its form." Glancing over towards the shaman, Daniel tips his head back; it's obvious that this one has no idea what the missionary is going on about, or what he's even saying, but then, Daniel doesn't actually _need_ the man's help. He just needs someone to talk at, least he ends up getting caught up in his own thoughts and incidentally kills the bloke. Frowning, the missionary lets out a grunt of either frustration or panic; with the mask, it's hard to tell.

This is going to require some work. So much, that Daniel worries if it's even worth it.

But he has to try. God willing. Give this fella a shot at recovery.

Due to dietary trends, tribesmen - especially those in isolated regions such as Zion in particular, rarely develop the same diseases and afflictions that are commonly found within the NCR. Infections and injury complications, yes, but being faced with an aneurysm here, now, is something of a surprise. The last time Daniel had operated on an aneurysm was back in New Canaan. On Mordecai.

He ignores the way his hands clench.

Daniel had been told it was some form of illness, perhaps a poison, but he'd found something quite different. He wishes he hadn't, quite frankly, because the odds aren't in this man's favour in the slightest. He hasn't got the equipment to do that level of surgery - hasn't for a good decade, even. All he's got is a few scalpels, stitches, a metre of rubber tubing and a heck of a lot of bandages.

Leaning forwards again, Daniel brings his hand up to glance at his wristwatch. Much to his dissatisfaction, blood slicks across the face. He pushes it away with his thumb. Twelve fifteen.

It's because he's stood off towards the right that he hears the dirt scruff away and then that peculiar almost nothing, but he doesn't bother to check - he knows. It was, all things considered, a sound he remembered quite well. Noiseless feet walking towards him.

_Oh. Already?_

"You know, it's a miracle that it hasn't already ruptured and killed him." Daniel looks upwards from the body and jerks his head in faint greeting. Joshua Graham pauses imperceptibly as the younger missionary addresses him, gaze shifting from Daniel's face to that of the Dead Horse lay across the table. Having clocked Joshua's presence, the other Dead Horse ambles off with a curt bow at the waist and Daniel naturally thanks him for his time before considering his next plan of action, standing with his forearms thrown upwards, eyeing the instruments on the tray wearily and concern radiating so obviously that he's fairly certain that the former Legate can _feel_ it. Joshua doesn't know the ins and outs of surgery - bullet wounds, perhaps, this Daniel knows from experience, but he knows that Joshua can follow directions. So he allows the former Legate to assist; nodding to a pair of gloves. "Ligation? Remove the weak spot and try to reconstruct?" He offers. Reluctantly. The Dead Horse has been under aesthetic for too long and Daniel knows it. "Though with an aneurysm that large, there won't be enough tissue left to repair the artery." He examines the incision anew. "Joshua?"

"Holding steady at one hundred ten beats per minute." The Legate nods, hands pressed against the Dead Horses' neck. "Have a little faith, Daniel. You'll do fine."

"It's not my welfare I'm particularly bothered about."

Daniel just about manages to sound humoured, a small strained smile twitching at his lips. He's not in a good enough condition to be operating - his nose is still hurting, though he's no longer bleeding and there is a reassuringly overall lack of sand, but the adrenaline from today's firefight has faded. That's a trek across Zion, a firefight and add that to the other two operations before this, so he's just too _tired_. Oh, he's alert, but the sickening feeling of fatigue and the burn behind his eyes is more than enough evidence that he's going to crash at some point, and soon. He should stop. He should, but that nagging question keeps on hammering in the back of his mind.

If he leaves it until tomorrow, will this tribal here be waiting for him?

The missionary takes the required instruments. Then, he spits it out before he can summon up the required reluctance. "Did you have a word?"

Joshua makes a noise of non-committal affirmative, leaning forwards to guide Daniel's hand a little further towards the left. "She's a good neighbour." He states and nods, but there's something else. Daniel knows; he's familiar with Joshua's brand of silences and this is a tense one. They work for a few minutes before the former Legate finally speaks again.

"Caesar is dead."

Daniel actually stops working to snap his head up, both of his hands are held at chest height and he frowns. It takes a few seconds for him to catch up, but when he does, all Daniel can really do is make a noise. Really, he doesn't know what to say. They've been through enough - too much, in Joshua's case, that simply talking about it seems to... undervalue the situation, in a way. Not just that, but Daniel has been very careful over the course of this half decade not to mention Caesar, or the Legion full stop. Not many people in New Canaan were willing to completely let it go, but he guesses, Adam never had that capacity to grudge and Daniel has never been too keen on jamming the stick where it hurts. He doesn't want to hurt anyone, not again - and certainly not now. Something about Caesar rankles Joshua in a way that is unexpected, unforeseen, in a way as opposed to the obvious.

So Daniel lets him speak his piece. In a way, the familiarity is soothing. He used to do similar things as a missionary.

"I have to admit, even after having a think, it's hard to believe." Daniel gives him a glance as Joshua frowns into the incision, while the younger missionary works on removing the aneurysm. It's getting harder - tenser, and not just the operation. "That even after all he did to me, all he tried to do to find and erase me from this world, _he_ went first."

Daniel exhales. It is easier to forgive an enemy than to forgive a friend. He frowns, who had said that? He can't remember.

"What do you think about that?" He asks, tossing a bloodied cloth into the bowl situated towards his right and grabs are spare towel, which goes over his shoulder.

"No doubt this will be good for the Mojave. I can only hope Arizona and the tribes don't suffer as the Legion falls apart around them."

Daniel examines the man before him, brow lowering. "You're not happy about it."

"Happy?" Joshua tilts his head, voice dropping into that pre-warning drawl.

"Poor choice of words, but you get what I mean."

A period of silence again.

"I don't know, yet." The former legate admits, eventually.

But Daniel understands, even if it is only in theory. "It's okay, you know." The Missionary gives him a significant glance. "Not too. The Lord reveals all in good time, hm?" Grabbing a fresh scalpel with the required blade, Daniel prepares himself for the hard part. "Once we clamp it'll be against the clock." He grimaces as he works, hands moving systemically in an order he finds predictable, if somewhat uncomfortable. Joshua meanwhile, watches intently, ready to jump in if it became necessary. Though if he was being completely honest with himself, the Malpais Legate knew he wouldn't expect to do so. The boy was capable. Young, yes – generally conflicted and nervous, but he had talent and a state of kind of focus that he's never really seen on someone his age. Perhaps if Mordecai hadn't coddled him so much, he'd be a little more up for it. Joshua doesn't know. He was gone for a very long time indeed. Frowning into the man's chest, Daniel leans forwards to see more closely, brow puckered in concentration.

This time, the noise he makes is defiantly one of frustration.

"Shredding like paper." He hisses.

"One forty per minute." Joshua glances up at him and Daniel curses under his breath.

"Right. Give me some of that rubber tubing – then... I, no, no – They'll be not point doing so from the outside, it won't hold. Support the inner side of the artery while I work around it." They do just that, but after a few seconds, a dab from the towel to soak up the excess blood and they both realise that it's going to be harder than first thought. The usually calm, soft spoken missionary breaks as he looks into the incision again. "Dammit-... there's nothing to work with here!"

The positions reverse so quickly that it's alarming.

"Keep it cool, Daniel and take it slow." Joshua gives him a glance.

"Slow and we'll be burying him before the hour is through." Daniel grunts. Though he pushes on with the faint reassurance. "Right now... remove the tubing. I'll close the hole behind it." He looks up, they lock gazes. "Ready?"

"Ready."

"One... two...-"

They suddenly scramble to stop the bleeding, slamming a towel over the artery as it spews blood out from the cut. There's a bead of sweat forming against his temple and it slides downwards over the side of his face to rest against his jaw, drawing to an inevitable halt when it meets the edge of his mask. The towel meanwhile, just keeps on soaking crimson.

* * *

{| **V** |}

* * *

When Anthony finds them, he knows immediately. There's just some things, as a New Canaanite, that he picks up faster than others and after everything, he knows White Legs when he sees it.

It wouldn't be much longer before they notice him however, this much Anthony knows. So he picks out a spot along the higher section of the mountainside. A safe, sturdy spot that looks over them and he slides along towards the edge of his stomach. Just like before, but this time, Anthony is going to take vengeance. He's going to. No more running. No more hiding. He grits his teeth in pent up anger, setting his rifle under him and pressing the backside up against his shoulder.

And this is anger. Anthony knows, because he likes to think he understands.

Daniel personally believes that there is a severe difference between being angry and being mad. It's a sentiment that he's been brought up with. Being mad is easy and this Anthony also knows, because he's lost count of the times his beloved big brother has come storming into his bedroom yelling about the fact that there's footprints all over the carpet, or that he's let Adam blow a hole the size of a basketball in the back door. It's the kind of mad where Anthony can give him a funny yet disappointed look and call him a hypocrite, because it was actually Daniel who had taught the trooper how to make pip-bombs in the first place and when he was Adam's age, he blew up the toilet in the back of the church by "accident". It's one of those things that will blow over.

Anger is a different thing altogether. Anger is the stuff grudges are made of, so full of white hot rage that if you touched it, you could die from burning - or something along stupid little metaphorical lines. Regardless. Real anger never goes away. It's the kind of emotion that just sticks. Remains in your veins and won't ever come out unless you really, really want it to. Unless you really try. Daniel gets it sometimes and honestly, it scares Anthony because in this instance, he doesn't know why; he just turns up and one in a while it'll be all over his face, boiling and bristling, ready to burn.

Most people don't realise, because Daniel doesn't exactly hit out at people like most others do when they're angry, but Anthony just gets these things.

So he knows that, right here, right now, he's angry.

There's five of them. Five White Legs, all surrounding a makeshift encampment. He can see the bodies from here. Keeping an eye on them, Anthony aims towards the White Leg situated well behind the others - a scout, perhaps, or just someone tasked with keeping a lookout from the rear. He adjusts his position for the wind speed, the inevitable drag and the approximate distance on instinct, his right eye squeezing shut as he looks down his rifle's sights. The four in the middle seem to be following the orders of the biggest in the group, likely some form of leader. Big man. The tribal markings give him away, as does the firearm on his back. Anthony isn't sure - looks like a semi-automatic from his perceptive. A far better weapon than the throwing spears and the half broken.45s the rest of them are using.

Anthony smiles. With his teeth. A twitchy pleased grin from under his scarf.

The leading tribesmen ambles along the pathway firmly, shoulders swaying. The second and third are left covering him, in some sense. The fourth is situated between the one lagging behind and the trio of White Legs at the front. All of them are dressed in their typical garbs, but only their leader seems to be actually protected. He can see the faint glimmer of the protective plates from here. Looks pre-war.

A headshot for him then. It would be simple. Easy. He can line up that shot pretty quickly and then move onto the others. He already knew that, but it's nice he supposes, to reconsider now and again. To evaluate his options.

Then, they stop. Or at least, the three up front do. One of them appears to be grabbing at their lower left calf. Voices become louder, seemingly frustrated. Anthony doesn't care; a distraction is excellent. The mantra runs its course as his shoulder shifted against the butt of his rifle, his finger curling around the trigger.

Anthony had come to rely on rifles. Whatever currency he happened to have earned since finishing his time as a missionary went on either two things; his armour, or his rifles. Food was easy to find – a good hunter can always be fed well in numerous places, if they knew where to look. As for medical supplies; most pre-war buildings had their fair share of secrets.

As a direct result, his rifle was, compared to the usual wastelander's standard, rather front running. Nothing fancy or rare; a standard marksman's rifle, though with the pricey addition of a silencer. He hadn't bought this weapon; he'd found it broken then proceeded to pay separate traders over the course of a few years to get it fixed. Now it was in reasonable condition: thoroughly oiled and looked after. The lock moved smoothly, giving off a dull click when pushed. The handle fitted comfortably into his hand and its shank was well polished. The weapon gave off a feeling of reliability and encouraged calmness and confidence. While it was compatible with a selection of 5.56mm rounds, Anthony tried not to stray from his personal choice of armour piercing variety when he could help it. For everything else, there were either surplus, which he bought in magazine bulks, or there were his far more reliable.45.

The canyon wall behind the group of White Legs is sprayed red as the first of the 5.56mms hits home. Shattering the Tribal's skull wide open in a gruesome show of semi-liquids. The man at the back only had a flimsy sports helmet. With a loud crack, it's practically wasted.

For a simple second, none of them notice and Anthony just manages to get the leader in his sights when there is a reaction. It's a noise of alarm, barely even a shout. Confusion.

Even better.

He catches the leader between the collar bone and the jaw, the bullet cutting through the man's throat and likely catching on the vertebra. The splatter covers the right forearm of the tribal standing next to him. Suffice to say, that is enough to grab the attention of all of them immediately, shouting and moving for their weapons. As it turns out, the one with the blood splatter has a sub-machine gun of vague make, but Anthony simply works around this development then rather opting to change his plan.

Another tribal comes running across the expanse of the camp, one Anthony hadn't seen before.

He drops them before the others can even register their presence.

Tossing his rifle aside, Anthony rolls out of the way as the bullets slam into the wall just above him in retaliation. Drawing his .45, he scrambles into another half crouch, but this time dashes across the expanse of the ledge and jump drops down to their level. He's too quick for the lesser trained tribal, but one of the men tracks him smoothly, firing out a single shot and catching him in the upper shoulder. Anthony would yell, gritting his teeth with a frustrated snarl, because hell – it does hurt. Not much, but enough. Yet because he practically lands on one of the tribals below him, he doesn't have the concentration span to focus on anything but finding cover. He's too preoccupied with grabbing the struggling tribal and slamming his forehead into them, stunning long enough to drag them before him as a crude form of human shield.

Bullets hammer into the ground before them and Anthony half jerks backwards, raising his handgun and firing a shot off, though not at the tribal armed with the machine gun – instead, at the White Leg running at him with some form of blade - it was burning, attached to some form of fuel canister.

The distance is too close for comfort. By the time Anthony has managed to squeeze a shot off, clean through the front of the skull, they collapse and land just within arm's reach.

A couple of bullets hammer into the front of the tribal – the man buckles and gurgles, but then, _then_ comes the barely audible click of the tribal's magazine running dry and pushing the White Leg away from him, Anthony sends a bullet straight into his neck, before going after the one with the machine gun. The remaining tribal can't get their magazine in fast enough, so they discard it, running at Anthony.

They met with heavy impact. The tribal's hard, compact ribs slammed up against Anthony's face, but since his coat was drawn right against his chest, the tribal couldn't get a good hold of the fabric and his hands slipped. Anthony slid away, being the shorter one, he grabbed the tribal's hair and _pulled_, bringing their face down onto his knee. Blood flowed, but he did not allow them to stagger backwards. Instead, he kept his grip and drug them down, onto the ground and just _hammered_ into them. Their eyes meet for a second. Only a second. Anthony brings his foot backwards and kicks the tribal as hard as he can in the ribs. Once, twice. Their arms go to protect them. Anthony walks around and goes for their back.

His mother and father would not approve of harming an opponent when they're down.

Anthony kicks them in the back of the head. _Get up_. He thinks. _Go on, I dare you_.

Daniel wouldn't approve.

But Anthony doesn't care. Daniel's not here. Not now.

Another kick to the back of the neck and they uncurl; he goes for the stomach. _God, what the heck are you doing?_ Some sane part of him exclaims, somewhere, but he just keeps on going. Another kick. Then another, and another. This time he hits them in the face. Blood springs from their already busted nose and over their face. Another boot to the mouth then. Another kick in the chest.

The tribal isn't groaning anymore. There's nothing. Anthony just sort of stands there, watching as blood trickles down their face. Twitching. Fuming.

God, what the heck is he doing?

* * *

{| **V** |}

* * *

He's scrubbing himself down when Joshua comes back with a fresh over shirt. The bloody one has been taken away to be washed. It leaves Daniel stood before a canister of water, watching as ripples widen upwards and sideways towards the edges. It's at that perfect hot-but-not-quite-uncomfortable temperature, and he's glad. Excessively hot water is harder on the skin and is uncomfortable to wash with for the recommended amount of time.

Though he has yet to actually put his hands in the water. Daniel grimaces. Slightly.

Come on. Put your hands in the water.

It takes a long time to heat this much to this temperature. Get on with it.

The body has been taken away by this point. It's nowhere near him, but Daniel can't help it. He's still picturing it in his mind. For Daniel, blood was no more interesting than any other mess that needed cleaning. Every day, it tended to coat his sterile gloves and sometimes, if he's not careful, a spurt would catch against his shirt, or his forearms, but he neither noticed nor cared for its smell. It was so ubiquitous and to him, no more significant than the smell of abraxo that was ever-present.

But today, this time, it got to him. He doesn't know why.

"Daniel."

He jerks himself out of his reverie, grabbing the antimicrobial soap with a loud grunt. First he started cleaning the subungual areas with the nail file, more out of practice than necessity, then he started timing. Scrubbing each side of each finger, between them, the back and front of the hands for two minutes. Simple. Scrubbing the arms comes next, always – always keeping the hand higher than the arm at all times. Stops bacteria-laden soap and water from contaminating his now as-of-currently clean hands. Each side of the arm three inches above the elbow. That went on for three minutes.

Daniel was careful. Repeating the process on the other hand and arm, keeping hands above the elbows. Just like he was taught. Just like was required. He knows, because Matthews has hammered it into his head since day one; if the hand touches anything accept the brush at any time, the scrub must be lengthened by one minute for the area that has been contaminated.

The tribals usually find this amusing. Finding the intense need for cleanliness and strict obedience to be somewhat strange.

But when it came to scrubbing off, Daniel felt complied to do it properly. It distressed him otherwise, quite frankly, to go around touching things and people when he knows for a definite fact that he's not completely washed down.

He begins to finish up, washing off his hands and arms by passing them through the water in one direction only – again, rules. From the fingertips to the elbow. He knows better than to move his arm back and forth through the water; he tips the smaller bowl of cold water over his arms instead.

"Must be pretty rough."

Daniel jumps when he hears Jessica; she's stood off towards his far right, just out of his peripheral, so he hadn't seen her approach. He half turns to see her and she's holding something vaguely familiar in one hand. She follows his gaze and brings it upwards, smirking slightly, though the expression is somewhat subdued. "Graham mentioned that you liked to play." She offers, giving him a fairly unreadable, searching look. "Not many people in the Wasteland do."

The missionary gestures towards the table offset to one side of the cave. He eyes the shirt Joshua had chosen out and he half groans. He doesn't like wearing darker shirts, not really. "The only thing to do back in New Canaan." He grabs it anyway.

"Huh."

She sets out the chessboard for him; Daniel's too busy... thinking, but he isn't, so he can't really call it that. He wonders. Thinking without thinking. He's not sure what to call it. He's at white though and that makes him happier, almost.

There's a moment, tense, where they size one another up. Daniel wonders, if this comes back to what he's heard. About the calculative little courier Anthony warned him about. Wits verses experience, then, he hopes; Daniel's been playing before he could even read. He moves his first pawn to e4.

"How's your nose?" She asks then and he grunts under his breath.

"Sore - what about your leg?" He replies with a faint frown and she makes a noise.

"Better, thanks to you - though the limp is sending me insane, you know. It's... distracting."

Another pause, heavy silence fills the space they sit.

"Where'd you learn to play?" He asks, trying to be polite as she sucks in a slow, uneven breath, moving her last third up two squares. Daniel responds immediately by jumping a knight to f3. Already, he thinks he knows where this game is going.

She laughs.

"House." He doesn't know what to think about that. It's only when he bloods the board - pawn to pawn - that she notes. "It wasn't your fault, you know."

Daniel doesn't really know what to say now. The death of a patient is a harsh reality with what he does. Learning to deal with and knowing what to expect was - _is_ - a necessary part of the job and as Matthews had stressed, critical to your own well-being. Daniel tries, of course, put's his trust in the Lord and consider the idea, but as a compassionate professional, he's used to expecting such an outcome, but rarely actually prepared to deal with their demise.

And when they're _not_ patients...

"Perhaps. Perhaps not." Daniel responds by taking the pawn with his knight.

Jessica hums under her breath. "It happens."

"I know."

"Joshua had me convinced you were going to have a breakdown." There is an edge to her tone, a reckless cynicism to it. It's Daniel's turn to set his mouth into a thin line, as she pushes another pawn to e6. "Should I be worried?"

"No." He assures, simply - because it's true. He advances his second knight. "I'll be fine." Black queen to c7. Daniel breaths in.

But it's her that drawls, "Got any advice for travelling around Zion?"

Not exactly, he wants to say, but he jumps his second last pawn up a square. "So you're... going?"

Jessica nods. "I've had a word with my friend. We both agree; we need to give a helping hand." Again, Daniel doesn't know if he should be glad or just plain suspicious, but he keeps it to himself. In any sense, this is good, for all of them.

Her second black knight moves up to f6.

Daniel advances a knight boldly up, almost to the black ranks of pieces, to threaten her Queen. "You have my thanks."

Jessica's eyebrows arch slightly and she moves her queen back a square. "It's okay." She mutters. "Really."

Daniel makes a mental note to talk to Joshua about it, even as he moves a bishop forward to f4. "Good luck then." A black knight jumps to e5, in retaliation, Daniel pushes his other bishop to e2 and his nod is slow, neat. "By the time you get back, I'll be in the narrows. Lots of preparation to do." She gives him a look, but nods all the same. They play the rest of the match in silence, quick and brutal and in the end Daniel ends up winning, with a Queen sacrifice; he sweeps all of her pawns from the board but all for her king and queen. Jessica smiles, then shakes her head.

"It's good to play someone who actually cares."


End file.
